Knock
by Twyla Mercedes
Summary: A very old house with a legacy of betrayal and murder is investigated by a group of skeptics. Slowly its history is revealed as a dark, powerful enemy is awakened. Members of the group must confront their disbelief to defeat the evil and reunite lovers long separated. (mostly Rumbelle, others along the way)
1. Chapter 1

**KNOCK**

**Chapter One**

**Arrival**

_Oh oh, take my love and take it down_

_Oh oh, climb a mountain and turn around_

_And if you see my reflection, in the snow covered hills._

_Well, a landslide'll bring it down._

Singing slightly off-key, psychology professor Emma Swan, aka Ghosthunter Swan, better known as Skeptical Swan, founder and principle investigator in the Skeptical Paranormal Investigation & Experimentation Society, _SPIES for short_, sang along with the old Stevie Nicks' song as she piloted her vintage yellow VW down the back Maine road. It was the middle of the day, not quite noon, but it was grey and gloomy. As if it was trying to rain. Or sleet. Or ice over. There were deep woods coming right up to the road and there was a light mist beginning to drift in.

Thank god for her GPS. She would have never found this place without Gypsy Dave _as she had named her technological guide._ Emma had taken the time to program the thing with a warm male voice with a slight English accent. It kept her company on these long roads and gave her the illusion of human companionship. Her people would be coming along tonight. She was coming in first. . . to settle in, make the initial contact and set up some preliminary equipment. Her backseat was piled with some of the esoteric equipment of her trade.

She had long since turned off a primary road and had been traveling along this secondary pissant paved trail _that reminded her of Clinton Road in Passiac County_ for nearly an hour.

_Where the hell was this place?_

As if in answer to her question, she rounded the corner and saw the sign, "Welcome to Storybrooke."

_Finally._

Knowing that little towns often made a good portion of their revenue through arrests and ticketing minor traffic violations _and that was something to really be afraid of _made her slow up as she drove on into the town.

Emma looked around. She wondered if maybe she had just driven right into a Hallmark special – _Never-been-married Swan, psychology professor at a small college, comes to a Maine seacoast town to do a paranormal investigation and finds true love and happiness. _

Well that was even more unlikely than her finding a real ghost.

This town was like something out of the fifties. A divided main street with stores on both sides and plenty of street parking. Over here was a little family owned drug store. And over there was a little family owned dry cleaner. And over there was a diner, an honest to goodness diner.

Too good to pass up. She'd been on the road for more than three hours and food sounded good. She pulled in to a parking place right near the front of the diner and went on in, expecting every patron to turn and look at her _a stranger_ and they did.

This was a seat yourself establishment, so she found a place that put her back to the door and most of the windows. "How are the hamburgers here?" she asked the scantily clad waitress. _Was this Storybrooke or Vegas? The woman showed cleavage and nearly showed butt cheeks – of course, she also had the figure to show it off – and a pretty face to boot._

"Best thing on the menu," the woman answered her. "I'd also recommend our fries and iced tea."

"Sounds great," Emma told her. She sat back and looked the place over. Small, clean, well ordered. Off-white formica topped tables set between dark burgundy plastic covered booth seats. Each table had its own sleek silver napkin holder, salt and pepper shakers and sugar in jarred dispenser _rats, no splenda packets. _Everyone had turned back to their meal. So, interested in new faces but not overly hostile or suspicious. Nice.

The burger and the fries were very good. The iced tea was surprisingly good; she hadn't expected a Maine establishment to do justice to the southern beverage. She ate and waited for a lull to call the waitress over.

"Listen, I'm looking for an old house. It's a bed and breakfast out on Broken Axle Road, near the coast."

The waitress sucked her breath in, "Whoa, you're going to The Dark Castle?"

"Dark Castle, no," said Professor Swan, "I'm looking for a B&B named Goldark Inn."

"Yup, that's The Dark Castle." The waitress looked around and seeing that there were no customers in need of ordering or coffee or any attention, she sat down. "Are you going there to stay?"

"Not exactly. I think there is another place in town, the Storybrooke Inn, where I'll be staying."

"Yeah, my grandma runs that. But why are you going to The Dark Castle?"

"Just to visit the place," Emma was evasive.

"Are you one of those ghosthunters or just someone out for a thrill?" the waitress was intently interested. "We get both kinds coming out to that creepy place all the time. Most of them don't make it very long. Some only manage a couple of hours before they clear out. My best friend and her husband are the caretakers. I don't see how they manage it, but I guess they can use the money."

Emma was curious as to what the local legends were, "Really? What kinds of things go on there?"

"Sightings, voices, dark shadows, people hearing things, footsteps on staircases, things getting moved around, people getting pushed, getting scratched, you know," she shrugged.

"Sounds like a combination of a very old house and over-active imaginations," Emma observed.

"Maybe so, but no one, absolutely no one had made it through the night in The Red Room. They all scurry out, sick, scared, screaming," the waitress said, waiting for the full impact of her statement on Emma.

"The Red Room?" Emma had, of course, heard of The Red Room. After all, it was in all of the brochures for the Goldark Inn, hyped as _The Most Haunted Inn in New England._

_Yeah well, thought Emma, they all were._

"Yeah, it's the upstairs bedroom." The waitress lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "It used the bedroom of Cora Goldark, the wife of the original owner. She was supposed to have been some kind of evil witch. She was poisoned by her husband and her pissed off spirit has stayed around to haunt the place and try to get back at her husband – and anybody else who gets in her path. Well, so goes the story," the waitress explained.

"That is quite the story," commented Emma. _Hmmm , history of a betrayed wife, aka the murder victim, now vengeful spirit. Yeah, she'd heard that one plenty of times. Old house, creepy location. Yeah, no wonder it had gotten a reputation. _

"I've been out there a few times. The place does give you the willies," the waitress told her. "Watch yourself if you decide to go," she advised Emma. At that point a pleasant looking, tall fellow came in. Checking out his accoutrements, Emma was impressed and, oh yes, he had a gun and a badge. He was clearly the local constabulary. He smiled and waved at the waitress and nodded at Emma.

"Hey Graham," the waitress called over to him. "Be right with you."

"Sheriff?" Emma asked.

"Uh hum. And our lady mayor's . . . umm, very good friend."

"So he's taken," Emma guessed.

"Depends, he's not as into the mayor as she's into him. Now if a pretty blond doctor comes in, he's mine, well, at least for this week," the waitress told her with a wink. "But there is a world class photographer who comes in here in the early morning. He's here for a while with his sick dad . . . and one other guy, a famous writer, who's just had a messy breakup with his top model fiancée. He comes in here just every so often. Both are pretty hot, unattached, and very hetero."

"Well thanks," Emma nodded. "If I need a hook up, I guess I'll hang around here. Now how do I get out to the inn?"

The waitress called over the sheriff. "Graham, tell this lady how to get out to The Dark Castle."

"Ma'am," Sheriff Graham had been standing by the counter when the waitress had called to him. "Sure thing. Go east," the Sheriff pointed, "Along Kinmont. It's almost exactly five miles out, and you'll need to look for the left turn. That's Broken Axle Road and it's easy to miss. It's just a little, narrow road that goes off through the forest."

Emma thanked him and the waitress, paid for her meal adding a generous tip. _After all, she planned to be in town for almost a week and figured she'd be back to eat in this place. _She made her way back out to the car, cranked it up and drove out looking for the B&B. She had to turn on the wipers to clear the mist.

She kept an eye on the odometer but when she rang up seven miles she realized she must have missed the turnoff and turned around to go back now looking for the road on the right.

She finally saw it, and saw how she would have missed it the first time. It was barely visible in the darkness of the overhanging trees. It was barely paved. It was barely a road - just one lane wide. She turned slowly down the road and proceeded cautiously, hoping she wouldn't meet anyone coming the other way. And hoped that whatever series of calamities that had caused this road to be named Broken Axle Road had long since been addressed and would not be of concern to her. At any rate, it was not going to be easy getting Leroy's van down this road.

It was probably a ten minute drive at thirty miles an hour. The road was bad with potholes, trees lying in or almost in the road, other rough patches with little pavement, and the drive became tense with Emma's hands gripping the wheel. Abruptly, she burst out of the woods and onto the grounds as if she had been shot out of a chute.

It was beautiful.

It was creepy.

The house, still a ways off, was indeed an old one, the original structure had been built before the Revolutionary War, more than three hundred years ago, and had likely been added on to multiple times. She could make out at least three stories, probably four counting an attic, with a central honest-to-god turreted tower. It was dark structure, foreboding and looked like the address should be 0001 Cemetery Lane.

_Yeah, easy to see why anyone would think this place is haunted._

Emma drove up through the black iron gates _surprised that there weren't griffin statues standing guard and gargoyles hanging off the roof – anything to put people off. _She was crawling along a well-manicured driveway, surprised to find the grounds so well kept, especially because it was so late in the season. Apparently whoever had planned the landscaping had also planted bushes and trees that looked gorgeous in the late fall. Emma suspected that things would look absolutely glorious in the spring and summer.

As she approached the house, Emma saw crows sitting on the tower.

_What was the old rhyme? One is for sorrow, Two is for joy. . . . _

She racked her brain. There were six crows sitting on the tower.

_Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five is for silver, Six is for gold._

As she finished counting, a seventh crow joined the six.

_Seven's for a secret that can never be told. _

Great. Emma sighed.

_Well, fortunately she was not superstitious. _

Emma pulled into the Guest Parking area near the front door, got her bag and headed on to the front door. She gave a friendly wave to the lone woman who was wandering in the sad, now past-its-prime sparse flower and herb garden. Emma could see a few chrysanthemums, pansies, and some type of tall sage still blooming but little else. There was some rosemary and some other greenery that Emma presumed were herbs but this went far afield from her expertise. Emma could see that the woman had stopped walking and waved back at her.

_Next: Emma meets Mary Margaret Nolen who is the manager of Goldark Inn and begins to hear all about the darkness that pervades the grounds and the house. _

**A.N. Of course I don't own any of these characters or any of the music_. _**


	2. The House

**Knock**

**Chapter 2**

**The House**

_It's a lesson too late for the learnin'_

_Made of sand, made of sand. _

_It in wink of eye my soul is turning_

_In your hand, in your hand._

_Are you going away with no word of farewell_

_Can there be not a trace left behind._

_I would've loved you better_

_I didn't need to be unkind. _

_You know that was the last thing_

_That was on my mind. _

Emma could hear the old folksong playing out as she came up the grey-white painted porch steps and crossed the wide wood planked front porch _complete with honest to Pete rocking chairs _to open the stained glass front door. "Hello!" Emma called out as she went through the doors into the front entry hall.

"Yes. . . one moment," she heard a woman's voice call back to her.

Emma looked around the entry hall. It was just beautiful. A wide hall, or was it a foyer? with several rooms going off to the left and to the right. At the end of the hall was a wide staircase going up. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, chair railing, ceiling molding, hand-carved bannister. Everything spoke of luxury and of old money . . . and of old blood.

In short order, a lovely brunette, with a heart-shaped face and pleasant smile came from the office behind the front desk. The woman was dressed primly, in a plain A-line skirt, button-up starched and ironed cotton blouse and an unadorned wool cardigan.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked.

"I'm Emma Swan," Emma told her.

The brunette beamed. "I'm so glad you've come. You must have a spot of tea, or would you prefer something like hot chocolate or coffee?"

"Chocolate, if it's no trouble," Emma told her.

"No problem. Chocolate is my favorite," the brunette replied. She went back into the office she had come from and shortly returned with two steaming cups set in saucers.

"Please sit down," the brunette led her into the front, first side room. "Have a seat."

Emma looked around. This looked like your great-aunt's parlor that no one was ever allowed into. The furniture was Victorianish, hard-woven tapestried upholstered mahogany chairs and settees. There were needlepointed pillows with a velvet crazy quilt flung across the back of one of the chairs. There was a fireplace with the chopped wood laid in, ready to go. Emma, knowing that she wasn't always the most coordinated woman, was a little nervous, concerned that she might knock over her chocolate onto one of the upholstered chairs.

"You won't hurt anything in here," the woman seemed to read her mind. "Please, take a seat."

Emma settled on the sofa and took a sip of her chocolate. "This is excellent. What's in it? Cinnamon?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm used to fixing this for myself and my husband; we both like cinnamon."

"It's lovely. Thank you."

The woman took a deep breath. "Well?"

There was an awkward silence.

"You are?" Emma finally asked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm Mary Margaret Nolen, the one who contacted you. I'm the housekeeper, bookkeeper, breakfast cook, laundress, and most of whatever else needs to be done inside this Inn."

"You asked me here. . . ?"

Mary Margaret gave her a weak smile. "We have a certain reputation. . . You know we've had other groups in and they've all agreed we're haunted, seriously haunted."

Emma nodded.

"This has brought some business, mostly thrill seekers. But our reputation has grown." The pretty brunette sighed, "Now the word is out that we are just too scary, too frightening, even dangerous and our business dropped off this past summer. My husband, James David and I had thought that being a certified haunted house would bring in customers, but most of these people just want to stay one night and nowadays, many of them leave early and ask for their money back. We aren't getting the week or two-week stays anymore."

"I take it that it wasn't hard to get the 'haunted certification?" Emma asked knowingly.

Mary Margaret shook her head in agreement. "We've had several well-known ghost hunting groups come through here and they all agreed that the place has multiple spirits, including one pretty malevolent one."

"So, see if we're on the same page here," Emma began. "You know that my group debunks hauntings. We've been to some pretty famous places, Myrtles Plantation, the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, the Whaley House. . . and have not found any real evidence, nothing scientific, for hauntings or paranormal phenomenon."

"Exactly. We want to shed the 'haunted' label and go back to being a regular B&B. Have families here and . . . well, not so many weirdos," Mary Margaret explained.

"And you think my group is just the group to do that," Emma finished.

"Please," Mary Margaret told her. "I know you are very thorough and will publish your findings. I'm hoping you'll be able to explain some of the strange things that happen around here. We'll want to put any findings that suggest the place is not haunted into our brochure."

"Well, we'll do our best, Mary Margaret. You understand, we're looking for genuine phenomenon, but we've never found anything. But people who are determined to believe will continue to believe no matter how much evidence we show them. You know with practicing science, you can't ever show evidence that something doesn't exist, only evidence that it does," Emma tried to be gentle. She wasn't sure how much help her group would be to this nice lady.

Mary Margaret nodded, "Well, the bottom line here is that I'm hoping one of your group will be able to spend the night in The Red Room. No one, no one has managed that, even though several pretty hardy souls have tried."

Emma put her cup down. "Oh, I have _got_ to see this room. Can we go now?

Mary Margaret hesitated, but gave her another weak smile. "Sure. Let's go." She got up and led Emma up the central staircase.

"This is a beautiful house," Emma remarked as she followed her hostess up the stairs. She caught sight of a man's portrait hanging on the wall as she began up the stairs. "Is that the original owner?" She stopped to look at the picture.

"Yes, that's Rumach Goldark. A dark, scary man if half the stories are true."

Emma looked at the man. His eyes were a warm chocolate brown, darker than his brown hair, which was speckled with sprays of grey. He had been painted seated and holding a gold-handled cane. Emma thought he was fascinating, handsome . . . compelling.

But he looked sad.

"Not bad. He was supposed to have killed his wife?" Emma asked tentatively.

"Both of them, if you believe the stories. His first wife, Milah, disappeared and he always told people that she ran off with some pirate, which given the population that came in and out of Storybrooke that day and time, could have happened. The second wife, Cora Mills, was a widow whose first husband had died under mysterious circumstances. She had a pretty nasty reputation herself. The story is that Rumach poisoned her, but I've often wondered if she didn't try to off him as she probably had done with her first husband and somehow he turned the tables on her," Mary Margaret explained.

"Well, either way, she'd be pretty angry," said Emma.

They had reached the top of the stairs and Mary Margaret turned right. "It's in the tower room."

Mary Margaret opened the door but didn't step inside.

Emma looked around without hesitation and she stepped in. "Well, I can see why it's called The Red Room," she called back over her shoulder. The octagonal room was done over in red, red, red. There was a bed taking up the center of the room with an enormous ornate dark wood headboard. The spread was a deep, rich red silk. There were several chairs, upholstered in red velvet, set around a small table, with a heavy damask red table cloth that reached the floor. Crystal glasses were set on the table on a silver tray. There was an enormous armoire in the same dark rich wood of the headboard standing along one wall; the doors of the wardrobe were carved with roses and hearts. There was also a large standing mirror set in one corner, also set in the same dark wood. The curtains were heavy damask, matching the tablecloth. The walls were covered with, what was it? red watered satin taffeta? The floor was wood covered with several oriental carpets done in mostly darkly red tones.

"Did the second wife like red or something?" Emma asked walking deeply into the room and noticing the portrait set in the over-mantel above the large fireplace with its mantel, also done in dark wood with lovely carved roses and hearts. The portrait was of a very attractive woman with dark red hair and pale skin. Beautiful, dressed in _what else? _dark red. Her eyes were brown, but not the warm chocolate of the husband. They were cold, severe. The two did not go together as a couple to her mind.

"She loved it, I guess," Mary Margaret called to her outside of the room. "That and mahogany. This room represents an entire rainforest of endangered trees."

Emma's analytical mind came into operation. This room was stifling with poor-to-peculiar air circulation. Someone could easily feel they were being suffocated in this room. There were large windows along several sides of the room and Emma could see that lights could come in off the ocean or even the coastal highway that ran along the ocean just visible through the windows. These lights would reflect off the glass and the mirror creating some interesting phenomena. And as high up as the room was, she could well imagine that the strong wind that blew off the coast could give a resident the sense that the room was moving, not to mention produce a number of eerie sounds as the wind blew through the ins and outs of the roof convolutions. And lastly, the red, red, red was dizzying.

_But what drove out experienced ghost hunters? It would take a lot to upset some of these guys. Emma knew them and though they were often on different pages, these guys were passionate about finding ghosts and weren't easily frightened. _

She nodded in greeting at the portrait, "Ma'am," she said as she placed a recorder on the table next to the silver tray and then she backed out. She stood in the doorway looking back in the room and watched as the door on the heavy armoire opened, paused, then closed again.

"Interesting and a little much," she admitted to Mary Margaret as they went down the stairs. "Was this Cora's décor?"

"Oh my goodness, yes," Mary Margaret said. "The room's been 're-freshed' a couple of times. I know that it got very shabby looking about forty years ago and the then owners re-did the walls and rugs and bedspread with materials as close as they could find to the originals."

"Who owns the house now?"

"Some descendent of the Rumach-Milah liaison. They had a son who was sent away to school when he was fourteen and who never really returned to the house or even the town. Kid was probably trying to distance himself from his crazy, mean family. The owner doesn't live in the house."

"Do you?"

"Oh lord no. James David and I live in one of the out-lying houses. It was originally built as a kitchen separate from the house, but now it's been completely renovated."

"All right," Emma nodded in understanding. "Well, Mary Margaret, let me tell you what I'd like to do."

The two women went downstairs and settled in the parlor again.

"My people will want to spend several days here, checking things out. I'm hoping they'll come into town tonight and we can get out here first thing in the morning," she paused and added, "I'm going to wait for the skinny on this place, so you only have to go over everything once with me and my crew." Emma finished explained, "I'd like to leave a couple of recorders going in your hot spots."

"Recorders?"

"I read several of the reports from other investigators. Much of the so-called evidence from this house is in the form of EVP's, Electronic Voice Phenomenon. These are random noises that are picked up on high quality recorders that are reputed to be the spirits talking with us. What I want to do is to get several recordings so that I can compare the number and types of recordings with those we get when we investigate. I need to hear significantly more when we are investigating to make a case that there is an intelligent haunting. "

Mary Margaret asked her, "You wanted to know the 'hot spots'?"

She had clearly done this before.

Emma nodded.

Mary Margaret began, "There are four big ones. The Red Room, of course. Also the library and the dungeon and the garden."

"Dungeon? This house has a dungeon?!"

"It's actually the basement but it looks and feels like a dungeon. Let me show you."

Again Emma followed Mary Margaret as she walked into the dining room and opened a nondescript door and led her down the stairs. The house apparently had a full basement. It had stone walls with concrete floors and several rooms going off a long corridor.

"The owners used to store food, especially root vegetables and cheese in this first area. This is the driest part. As you go deeper there is increased moisture and we can get mold problems. These rooms were apparently part of the original house and were used as servant quarters."

"Damn," said Emma. "These rooms are dark, damp and cold. Not exactly a pleasant, healthy place to keep your servants." _But a great place to imagine cold spots, dark shadows and just generally get creeped out._

"Well, they had indentured servants during that time and those people were little better than slaves. They couldn't quit and if they made too much trouble, the person holding the indenture could ask that time be added, keeping the person on indefinitely." Mary Margaret stopped at one of the first doors, near the staircase, "This is the room that we hear crying. Just sobbing, nothing else."

Emma nodded and placed a recorder.

"There's a story," Mary Margaret offered.

"Later, please. Now, the library?" Emma asked.

"Please, follow me," Mary Margaret said.

Emma followed her hostess back up the stairs and into another beautiful room, the ground floor of the tower. It was an octagonal room with the same high ceilings found in the other rooms. As Emma stood at the door and looked into the room, the first thing she saw was a beautiful old writing desk complete with a red quill pen and inkwell set; the writer would have his back to the windows and his face to the door. As she looked around the room she could see that it was lined with books from floor to ceiling. There were several high windows with heavy gold velvet curtains that, no doubt, prevented the sun from fading the books and furnishings. There were also two heavy rectangular tables each with four upholstered chairs on wheels sitting along the long sides. There was even two of those cool brass ladders that ran on rails along the walls, curving around the corners. The wood floor was covered with another oriental rug, this one with blue and gold coloring. Emma glanced around. Without checking too much, she caught a glimpse of what might be some potentially valuable volumes. Most of the books were leather bound with embossed tarnished gold lettering. Looked like a library that might have belonged to Benjamin Franklin.

"Nice," she said.

"Some of the researchers have gotten into 'conversations' in this room," Mary Margaret told her. "There are a lot of other things that happen here that I can tell you about."

"All right," Emma said and placed another recorder in the library. "I'll be back tomorrow with some of my crew and we'll get more details from you about what kinds of things you've seen or heard about. We probably won't be spending much time in the garden – outdoor spots have too many variables that cannot be controlled."

As Emma headed out of the library, Mary Margaret stopped her and stooped to open one of the barrister cases that sat along one of the wall. She pulled out a small rectangular object and handed it to Emma. It was a book, an old book.

To Emma's questioning gaze, Mary Margaret explained, "We found this recently. It was hidden behind some of the other books and we found it when we were cleaning out some of the shelves. I have no idea how long it was there. It seemed to have belonged to a Belle French, a servant girl who worked in the house about the time the second wife died."

"Good grief, how valuable is this?"

"Pretty valuable. It's her journal. I've glanced through it. She was an interesting young woman, if for nothing else she was literate, which was unusual for the day. I thought you might find it an interesting read."

Emma took the volume reverently, "Thanks. Of course, I'll return it to the estate when I'm finished."

She returned to her car and carefully laid the book on the passenger seat. She looked in the rear view mirror as she was driving away.

_There, right there in the small window in the attic. It looked like the curtain moved. Was there somebody in the attic watching her leave?_

Emma stopped and got out of her car to look back at the house. Nothing moving. Just a curtain hanging in the small window. She shrugged. _This place was already starting to play on her mind. She'd have to be careful. _

_Next: We meet Emma's investigation team._

**A.N. That's a Tom Paxton song at the beginning of this story. **

**Special thanks to those early reviewers (sorry I wasn't able to get back to everybody personally – Yahoo went to a new "User Hostile" format and for a while my email wasn't coming in; then my sweetie was hospitalized for two days with a little spinal surgery, he's home now): jewel415, Guest(creepy), cynicsquest, Wondermorena, Grace5231973, RoxyMoron, Erik's TrueAngel, thedoctorsgirl42, MyraVallallah, and DruidKitty. Thank you, thank you, thank you. rxm**


	3. The Investigation Team

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 3**

**The Investigation Team**

**(AN: This story contains some references to child abuse.)**

_Making a livin' the old hard way_

_Taking and giving my day by day_

_I dig the snow and the rain and bright sunshine_

_Draggin' the line (draggin' the line)._

The ride back to town seemed shorter than the ride out. Emma had found a 70's station and sang along with the songs she knew. Once into town, Emma went to the little family owned hardware store, popping in to purchase some rubber gloves usually used for painting and refinishing furniture. She found the Storybrooke Inn _not hard, there was just the one main street_ and checked herself in. She verified that her crew had rooms reserved. It was only five in the afternoon, so she opted to take a nap.

The Inn was typical bed and breakfast. Lotsa frou-frou. Floral chintz on the white cast iron bed. Pillow shams with lace ruffling piled two deep on the bed. A braided rug on a rough hardwood floor. An old style dressing table with a big mirror and a delicate little matching chair were set along one side of the room. At least this room came with a private bath—Emma had thought that was worth the extra thirty a night she was paying. Her uneven hours had taught her to sleep whenever an opportunity arose. She had wanted to look at the diary but felt that it had kept for a couple of hundred years so would likely keep a couple more hours.

Reluctantly, Emma put the diary on the dressing table.

She then crashed onto the bed, not even bothering to remove her serviceable boots. She lay on her back with her feet off the bed. She caught a glimpse of a ceiling fan before she nodded out.

She heard something in her sleep.

"Emma!"

She stirred.

"Emma!"

There it was again.

"Eeemma!"

Was someone calling her?

"Eeemma!"

She was awake now. She thought she had heard someone calling her name. It had seemed to come from far away. She lay still and listened.

"Emma!"

There she heard it again.

And there was knocking on the door.

"Leroy? Is that you?" she called out. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven. She'd been out for almost two hours.

"We're here." Leroy stated the obvious.

Emma slid off the bed and headed for the door. "You don't have to keep calling me. I'm up, already."

"Hey, I just got here and only called you once, gimme a break," said grumpy Leroy.

"Yeah right, well, come on in. You guys had supper yet?"

"Nah. We just pulled in. Those undergrad students you got together are a bunch of ripe winners. Where'd you pick them up?"

"They signed up for this, did exceptionally well in class and on a couple of easy over-nighters," Emma told him. "I don't just pick them out of a hat."

Emma's Psychology of the Paranormal was a course so popular at the small college where she taught that the school had instituted a lottery system to select students from all those who signed up. It was limited to a mere ten thirty students for each mini-semester when it was scheduled. From each of these classes, Emma would pick five students who, if they were interested, were allowed to participate in at least one multi-over-night investigation.

Leroy was one of her regulars, not a student . . . her tech man, responsible for equipment and manning the central command post. By day he had his own plumbing business and was as solid as any piece of porcelain that he had ever installed. He drove the van with the heavy equipment.

Coming along in a second smaller van was Jefferson. Emma had had Jefferson as a student three years prior and he had so impressed her that she asked him to accompany her on a few more outings. He was erratic, unpredictable . . . and brilliant and ingenious. He was now a grad student in business and marketing, no less¸ having shared that he wanted to open his own store for men's apparel, eventually establishing his own line of men's clothing. Emma had initially thought he was gay but had soon found out that Jefferson was totally into women when he had hit _unsuccessfully_ on her. She thought of him as a very good friend and felt that was how he regarded her also. . . at least she thought that was how he thought about her.

Emma had gone into the washroom to splash water on her face to help her wake up. "Be with you in a jiff," she called out to Leroy.

"I saw a diner," Leroy told her. "Jefferson and the peons are waiting there, hoping we can get some supper."

"I had lunch there. It's fine," Emma assured him.

She and Leroy went down the stairs and out to his van. Leroy drove them down the road to the diner where they connected with Jefferson and this term's five specially selected team members, already settled in where they had pushed two four-seater tables together to make room for the eight members of the team.

There was Rory Dubonet, a very pretty, baby-faced girl whose daddy was the head of an oil company and filthy rich. Although she often seemed spacey, Emma knew that Rory was serious and hardworking and she also happened to know that her typical score on the Zener cards was eighty-one.

The attractive petite oriental girl sitting next to her was Millie Chung. Emma knew her father was a world-class martial arts expert and, stereotypes aside, she had always suspected that Millie was quite adept at protecting herself. Another serious, focused student.

The first male student she came to at the table was Archie Hopper. He was a grad student working on his Ph.D. in psychology. He was a little older than the other others, and like the first two was serious, focused, mature. Emma liked him. Dependable was what she thought when she considered Archie.

Next was a pretty little brunette with dark green eyes, Clarissa. She was a Library Science major and bubbly and pleasant. Emma knew she wasn't flighty, just optimistic and cheerful. She made a nice addition to the team.

The last member of the investigation group was Colin Hooker. He was a tall, very nice looking young man. Emma probably knew the least about him. He certainly fancied himself as a ladies' man, having hit on nearly every female member of the group, including Emma. He was clever and decisive and Emma felt, despite some of her other misgivings about the man, that he too could be a positive addition to the team.

The team was excited. This was the first serious investigation they had been on, with of course the exception of Jefferson and Leroy.

The slutty waitress came by and greeted Emma and the rest of the group. As she efficiently took everyone's orders, Emma couldn't help but smile as the men in her group watched the scantily clad waitress open-mouthed. She flirted with each and every man in the group and smiled and praised each woman at the table.

"Good choice. The chicken parmesan is excellent," she complimented Rory's selection.

"I'm getting that too," said Jefferson immediately.

After the orders were taken and the group had settled in to sip their iced tea, Rory asked, "How did you get into this Dr. Swan?"

Emma winced. "It's not a pretty story. Are you sure you want to hear it?" Emma asked the group and was greeted with all around nods.

"Well, many of you know that I grew up in different foster homes. I was in a really nice one for a while but then the dad got a job out of state and they couldn't take me with them. I was ten years old at that time. The next home I went into was . . . it was . . . bad. They called it The Farm and they had a lot of kids there, apparently using us for their primary income."

Emma paused. "Well my first night there I began hearing voices, two different ones, coming up from under my bed. I was being told to get out, run away, save myself. I figured some of the other kids were trying to scare me but when I confronted them, they all got quiet-like and wouldn't talk about it."

Emma stopped while the food was set on the table and then began again, "We didn't have a lot of food there and we had a lot of chores we had to do, working on their farm, long days from dawn to late evenings. They were supposed to be home-schooling us, but that was a joke. We never had anything that looked like a reading or a math lesson."

She took a bite of her food, "The other kids had warned me not to act up. They told me that the foster parents had this hole dug in the back yard and if you acted up they would put you out in it for the night or even longer. They'd cover up the hole with some plywood so you'd be left in this deep hole in the ground in the dark. They were out in the country so nobody could hear if you started screaming."

Emma took another bite of food, oblivious to the response of her audience. "Well with everything else and the voices, which I was now hearing all night, every night, I decided I wanted out of there. I knew that being bad wouldn't get me out, so I faked being sick. Complained about my stomach hurting, made myself throw up a couple of times, ran the thermometer under hot water and spiked a fever. They didn't want a sick kid so they handed me back to the state."

Emma took a drink and continued. "Then when I was fifteen I read about the place. Apparently some child porn surfaced with several of the kids who'd been at The Farm starring in lead roles. Social Services investigated. Along with the child porn, the foster parents had reported a couple of their kids as runaways, so some smart cookie got the bright idea to bring in cadaver dogs, who went right to the basement, which was under the room I'd been in. Apparently there were two bodies of kids down there. The law figured that some of the 'disciplinary' practices used on The Farm had gone too far and the two had died in separate incidents. The family had buried them in the basement underneath my room to cover up the crime."

Emma stretched. "Anyway, I'd always wondered what had actually happened, if these dead kids had been warning me or if I had just picked up the sinister vibes from the place or just what? So I started investigating paranormal phenomenon on my own, then joined a group of investigators and then formed my own group and ta da."

"Yeah, and then she did her doctoral dissertation on the psychology of fear," Leroy told the group.

"And that turned into the best seller, _Waking Fear,_" Archie Hopper shared this information with some reverence.

"And allowed me to pay off my student loans early," Emma said waving off any adulation.

"Have you ever been really scared doing this?" Clarissa asked, her deep green eyes large and wide.

"All the time," Emma answered.

"Hah!" Jefferson interjected. "My first time out with Emma, we were in the Trans Allegheny Lunatic Asylum. One of the creepiest places I've ever been. I mean, in broad daylight you will see things, hear things. One of the most common sightings is this seven, eight foot dark shadow man. I was working the camera when we actually spotted it at the end of this long corridor."

Jefferson was enjoying being the center of attention and continued, "Now, I was busy peeing myself, but Emma took off, sprinting down the hallway, shouting, 'Hey, Hey. Mr. Shadow, sir. Wait, wait, I just want to talk to you.' She got almost to the shadow entity when, I swear to god, the thing looked like it turned, looked at her and just vanished."

"There was no shadow entity, Jefferson. It was just a shadow," Emma downplayed the event.

"But most people would never have approached the damn thing," Jefferson insisted. "Emma," he turned to the group, "will do the brave thing every time."

"Do the brave thing and bravery will follow," Clarissa said. Everyone turned to look at her. She gave them one of her perky smiles. "It's a family saying."

"It's a good one, but folks," Emma was very serious. "If you ever hear Leroy or Jefferson or me tell you to get out, then you get out. There are creepier things in these old houses than haunts or spirits or ghosts or apparitions or specters or phantoms or bogey men or things that go bump in the night. One of my top priorities is your safety."

"What is the plan, Dr. Swan?" Archie asked her.

"Well," she began, "I want everyone to go through the place, slowly, top to bottom. I'll split you up into groups of three and then we'll regroup and talk about your impressions. I would suggest you each go into a room by yourself and then have other members of your group go in, by themselves, just to get your individual impressions. Then we'll have Ms. Nolen take us through and tell us about what other people have experienced. Then, we'll develop our investigation plan."

"Great. Who goes with whom?" asked Millie.

Emma sighed, "Right now, I'm thinking of putting you and Rory together with Jefferson. That will leave Hooker with Clarissa and Archie. I'm thinking that Jefferson and Hooker will likely end up operating the hand-held cameras, if that's ok with you two?"

"I'm always good with whatever," said Jefferson.

"I'm perfectly happy to work with Clarissa," said Hooker, smiling at the shy co-ed.

Hooker nodded. "We'll do stationary cameras too?"

"We usually do. After you go through we'll talk about what equipment you will need. Everyone's familiar with the types of equipment we have. EVP's, data loggers, static meters, of course. We also have the strobe lights with motion detectors and a new spirit box we may want to try out."

"Tell me about the spirit box," Archie asked.

"Oh, it's totally cool," began Jefferson. Emma glared at him and Jefferson made a zipping motion across his mouth.

"It's a radio receiver that scans back and forth across AM channels," began Emma.

"And when you ask a question, the spook will find the right word to key to the broadcast and answer your question," Jefferson finished up exuberantly.

Emma sighed, "It picks up random words from the airways that people interpret as meaningful responses to questions, a classic example of pareidolia," Emma explained.

"So we'll do a baseline?" asked Millie.

"As we speak, there are three digital recorders left in a couple of the 'hot spots'," Emma answered.

"Oh goody," said Leroy. "I was wondering if I'd have anything to do tomorrow morning."

Everyone had almost finished their meals and they all had turned down dessert. The group was picking through things left on their plates and chit-chatting about their upcoming investigation and the whole quaintness of the town. They were finishing up when. . .

"Oh crap!"

Everyone turned to look at Emma. She was staring at the door of the diner and had lowered her head. "Quick, switch places with me, Rory," she spoke in an urgent whisper to the young woman who was sitting with her back to the door. As she moved to change places with the bewildered student, Emma pulled her hair up and wound it into a bun. She turned her collar up and hunched down.

"What is it?" asked Clarissa.

"I think I just saw someone I don't want to see me," Emma said still whispering.

"The hot guy who just came in?" Rory asked.

"Maybe," Emma admitted.

"That's Neal deBae, the writer . . . or his twin," said Clarissa. "He's been on the New York Times best seller list umpteen times and they made a movie of his first book."

"I know that one," said Jefferson. "He writes the _From Neverland_ urban fantasy mystery series with the clever hardboiled detective and his hottie forensic psychologist girlfriend. . . oh my god! He's your ex-boyfriend, isn't he?"

Emma had her face buried between her hands. "We dated . . . a while. We broke up. He began dating other people."

"And you don't want to see him again," Hooker said succinctly. "I recognize that particular look of panic, Dr. Swann. We'll get you out of here. No problem. Clarissa, sweetheart, why don't you and Rory go over and distract the man, yes, Rory undo the top button of your blouse, that should do it. Archie, Millie, can you two take care of the bill? Jefferson, get on her other side and we'll get the good doctor out between us."

The plan worked with the two tall men managing to usher the petite woman out of the diner while the esteemed Mr. deBae was otherwise engaged with the two lovely undergrads. Jefferson noticed that Emma did not look back into the diner and went and stood by the street side of the van, putting it between herself and the diner. The group finished up in the diner and came on out to the vans to go back to the Inn.

It was later and both Leroy and Jefferson had come to Emma's room to talk.

"You were scared," Jefferson said. "I've never seen you scared."

"Okay, I was in love with the guy, all right," Emma had stopped at the front desk and gotten a bottle of the red wine usually set aside for honeymooners. She was sitting at the top of her bed with her feet crisscrossed beneath her. Jefferson had joined her sitting on the bottom of the bed and Leroy sat in the chair that came with dressing table. Emma continued with her story after she downed a glass of wine.

"I was a little hick girl from Frog Level, North Carolina, brand new to the big city and he was this older guy, so suave and sophisticated. My first love, if you follow me." She poured herself a second glass of wine and downed it. The two men sat quietly, allowing her to talk.

"We were together more than a year. I had finished up my degree at Columbia, but my dissertation hadn't hit the big time yet. I was job hunting there in New York. Just when I thought things were going along so perfectly, I mean, I was thinking marriage with a mini-van and a house in some bedroom community with good schools, well, he dumped me¸ left me with bills, no forwarding address, nothing. I was devastated and it took me a long while to get over him. . . " she looked at the two men. "All right, I never completely got over him, ok? I took a job far away from New York and figured I wouldn't ever run into him again. I didn't know he was here. I mean who would expect to run into a big-shot writer in East Jesus, Maine?"

"And you're not ready to see him again?" asked Leroy

"Seeing him, everything came crashing back on me." Emma drank a third glass and bit her lip, trying not to cry. "I am sooo not over him. I can't see him again. Seeing him again brings back all the pain. It's like he left yesterday. I can't deal with it."

"We understand, Emma. We've got your back," Jefferson promised her getting up to put a comforting arm around her. He took the wine bottle and pour himself and Leroy their own glasses of wine.

"You know that's the third story I've heard from you of why you got into paranormal research," Jefferson began, sitting back down on the bed. "There was the monster repeatedly attacking you, suffocating you in your bed at that one foster home and then the one where you and some friends went into a graveyard with a Ouija board, conjured something up and you had one of your friends begin to act all weird and possessed, eventually killing himself. Which one is true?" he asked her.

Emma laughed, "Maybe they all are." She sighed, "or maybe none of them are true." She shifted around. "Ok guys. I'm going to be all right now. You are true blue friends."

Emma ushered them out and shut the door behind them, leaving her alone in the bedroom.

**This chapter's song is Dragging' the Line by Tommy James and Robert King**

**Thank you so much for your kind reviews (and all those people who are now 'following' this story): Roxymoron, ****Grace5231973, Guest (love), cheesyteal'c, jewel415. Ying-Fa-dono, DruidKitty, cynicsquest, Guest-interesting, Wondermorena, knight771 (Guest)(**_**and aren't you a sweetie, thx**_**), Aletta-Feather, Erik'sTrueAngel, Tinuviel Undomiell, thedoctorsgirl42, ArielSprite, and MyraValhallah**

_Next: Emma starts reading Belle's Diary_


	4. A New Deal

**Knock**

**Chapter 4**

**A New Deal**

_Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high_

_And the dreams that you dream of _

_once in a lullaby_

Emma had set her Pandora on one of her own stations and sang along with Iz and his ukulele as he fractured the lyrics of the old classic song.

Before leaving, Jefferson and Leroy had both hugged her and had let her know that if she wanted to talk more, they were just down the hall. She calmed herself down and had managed to get herself ready for bed, washing her face, slipping into some sleep pants and a tank top. No longer quite as upset, she had decided that the diary was too good to pass up. _Just the distraction she needed._

She put on a pair of the refinishing gloves she had gotten, not wanting to expose the book to any of the oils in her hand.

She gently opened it and began reading.

Apparently it was the recordings, the musings, the thoughts of a young woman, Belle French, writing down the daily events of her life, which Miss French had felt were very ordinary. Emma quickly grasped some family dynamics. Dad was a widower. There were two older sisters, possibly, probably step-sisters. _Sniping bitches if Emma was reading between the lines accurately. _Belle, the youngest, seemed to be the most responsible _of course it was her diary, so other people were more likely to have shortcomings than the authoress. _Belle helped her father in the printer's shop. She was able to set type and work the press. She also managed her dad's financial books.

She chaffed against the restrictions put on her because she was female.

She yearned for adventure and excitement.

Emma could also tell that Belle was worried that daddy's business was in trouble. Oh, he was doing plenty of business, but many of his clients did not pay, apparently taking advantage of the man's good nature. Daddy also seemed to owe money to a lot of people, especially his landlord who seemed to be an intimidating, unforgiving figure.

Along with helping in the print shop and keeping her father's financial books, Belle seemed to be responsible for helping around the house with a never ending chore list of clothes washing and clothes mending, vegetable gardening, cooking, preserving. And there was the spinning and weaving and fine sewing _Belle was particularly proud of her embroidery skills._ And candle and soap making. And. And. And.

_Nary a moment to update your facebook status, thought Emma._

Ah, Emma thought, here it begins. The landlord was coming to collect the rent.

And the family did not have it.

"No, no Belle, I will not have you here while I deal with Master Goldark. He has a most unpleasant reputation which is well deserved, I promise you."

"Now father, you know those rumors that the man has made a deal with the devil are untrue. Those are coming from silly, superstitious, jealous people," Belle gently admonished her father.

"Well, I wouldn't say he's made a deal with the devil, but the man certainly has an aura of wickedness around him. I'd prefer you have no contact with him." Maurice French turned to his youngest daughter, "Please Belle, you need to stay in your room." Mr. French was not being unkind. He was genuinely concerned about the welfare of his youngest _very pretty_ daughter.

"But papa," Belle began, ever persistent, "I can offer Master Goldark a reasonable payment plan that he may be willing to accept. I've worked it all out and have the figures for him to see."

"He's not a reasonable man," Mr. French told his daughter. "He's a beast who lies in wait for the weak and who will try to take away everything I have worked for. Our only hope is if I can get him to give us some extra time. I just need him to give us two months and then I will be able to pay back everything and then some," Maurice French went on.

Belle knew her father had made a deal with the emerging government of the United States. But as much as the family had supported the efforts of the patriots, the young government was slow to pay its their bills and not particularly dependable. Belle knew that it wasn't wise to count on this money coming in, certainly not wise to bet the business on it.

But they did have other accounts due. And Belle had talked with these people and they had promised to pay her some portion of their bill within the next two weeks. Belle had been able to get money from these clients before and was pretty sure that most of them would come through for her. It would be a meager time for herself and her father, but Belle could make good soup from poor ingredients and they should just be able to manage.

"But papa," Belle began again.

"No, no Belle. I don't want you here when I meet with him. The man's dangerous."

Belle finally nodded. She was a good, obedient daughter and she wanted what was best for her papa, just as she knew he wanted the best for her.

Papa French had supported her decisions to turn down offers from her various suitors, who seemed more interested in the printing press business than in her. He knew she wanted to marry for love and, as he had married her mother for love, he understood.

After Belle's mother's death, he'd married a widow with two older daughters, marrying not for love but to give Belle a mother and to have someone to run his household. That had not worked out well and he had regretted it. He had felt guilty when his second wife died from the grippe and he had continued to try to care for his step-daughters, but they were vain and selfish . . . and lazy.

Papa French had also encouraged Belle's reading and studying and didn't seem to mind that many of the townspeople thought of her as 'odd.' He'd always had a sense of pride that she could hold her own in discussions with some of his older prestigious acquaintances, including the notable Benjamin Franklin. Mr. Franklin had taught her how to play chess and regularly corresponded with his daughter, particularly regarding some of his scientific experiments, apparently enjoying the comments and insights from the intelligent girl. Mr. Franklin would sometimes send her books that he thought she might enjoy reading.

Belle waited, not in her own bedroom, but in the room where the family would gather to eat, next to the main room of the house where she would be able to hear everything that went on. She heard the knock.

Her father was waiting and immediately opened the door.

"Come in, come in, Master Goldark."

Belle could hear the measured walk of the landlord: step, click, step, click, step, click. She knew the man walked with a cane, not an affectation; it was something he depended on.

"You seem unusually happy to see me, French. I'm assuming you have my money." There was a definite brogue, not unpleasant to her ear.

"Well, actually. . . " began her father.

"Perdition! You don't have the money, do you?" Goldark was quick.

"Well. . ." her father began.

_Oh, he was not going to have the chance to give his proposal to Master Goldark! Her father, who had never managed confrontation well, was already stammering and hesitating. Master Goldark would soon enough be done with him. . . and her. . . and throw them out of their home and take away their business! _

"I told you what would happen if I came again and you were short!"

"But sir," her father was still trying to explain.

"What is there to explain? How long has it been now? How many extensions and how much extra time have I already given you? You were told to have the money this time! You don't have the money!"

"Sir," Belle came out of the dining area. _She had to do something._

The landlord turned to look at her. Her father's face was aghast.

Belle stood still a moment looking the man over _and allowing him to look her over_. He didn't look like a beast. He was shorter than her father, a slender man, but he exuded power and control. Not exactly handsome, but not unpleasant to look upon either. Brown hair with a touch of grey. His eyes, soft brown ones, in particular housed a cunning intelligence and . . . and . . . something else.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I'm Belle French. I keep my father's books. . . " she began.

"Pah!" he turned away from her. "You have a woman managing your money! No wonder you are in arrears! Idiot!"

"I have a deal to offer you," she said firmly, mustering her courage.

He turned back to her, a smirk on his face. "You do?" He walked over to her, looking down at her, looking her over, scrutinizing her. Standing so close to him, Belle had to brace herself, stop herself from cringing away. "You have a deal? Something that will allow your father to keep the shop and the house and still allow me to get my money?" His tone was disbelieving.

"I do, sir," Belle took a deep breath. _Do the brave thing and bravery will follow._ "Please, if you will," she led him over to her work desk. "These are the accounts that will be paid shortly and those that are due later." She showed him her ledger. "If you would agree to take a small sum now, in two weeks we should be able to pay you additional money and then again in another two weeks, we should be able to make another payment. Small payments, to be sure, but frequent ones."

She paused a moment before diving into the rest of her plan. "Now, if you would be willing to accept non-cash payments, we would be able to offer you flour, corn, eggs and even some game turkeys and fish that have been used to make payment to us for the services we render and we would be able to settle our account much sooner."

The man was looking at her, his eyes narrowed, his face implacable. "Also we would be willing to offer you free printing services. . . should this ever be needed. . . as a way of defraying some of our debt. . ." she trailed off.

The man was now looking at her with amusement.

Goldark took the ledger from her hands, sat down in her desk chair and began looking over her figures. "These are your calculations?" he asked, carefully examining the tidy columns of numbers written with painstaking precision. He was carefully going through the pages, examining her notations and spot-checking her math.

"Yes sir," she answered him deferentially.

He sat back in the chair and, for a long moment he just regarded her. "Tell me, dearie, do you also read?"

"And write, yes sir," she answered him.

Her father started to speak, but Goldark waved him off. "You help your father with the printing press?"

"Yes sir," Belle wasn't sure why he was asking these questions but she felt confident of her answers.

"You manage his correspondence?"

"I do," she answered.

He sat still, looking at her, considering. Abruptly he turned to her father, "I have an alternate deal."

"Of course, Master Goldark. Whatever you think." Her father had breathed a sigh of relief. _Master Goldark was going to offer a deal_.

"I have a large estate and many financial considerations. I have had difficulties keeping a clerk. Your daughter seems eminently qualified for the position. She will work for me, until you have paid your debts to me. Are you agreed?"

"What?!" Maurice French was appalled. _His sweet, innocent daughter, going with Master Goldark as a. . .as a clerk. Who'd ever heard of such a thing?!_ "No, no, I won't allow my daughter to work for you."_ Clerking was not a job for a female! It would be a scandal!_

Goldark shrugged, "Then I shall be stopping by the sheriff and you shall be asked to leave these premises." He rose and started towards the door.

There was a moment of sheer panic.

"No, I will go with you!" Belle told him suddenly, speaking without thinking.

"No, Belle, I can't let you do this," her father told her. "We'll manage somehow. We have friends. Gaston's family will let us have a room."

"I decide my fate, papa. I won't have us thrown out of our home! You follow my plan and you will be able to get the money together. Then, I shall be able to return here with you soon enough," Belle reassured her father. "It will only need to be for a couple of weeks, especially if that big payment comes in."

Goldark held his arm out to her. Belle curtsied to him and they went out the door together. He was pulling her along so quickly that she didn't have time to remove her apron and was just barely able to grab her thin cloth coat to give her some protection against the cold wind.

"No Belle, don't go!" she heard her father call after her.

"Papa, I'll be all right," she called back assuring him, _assuring herself_.

As she accompanied the dark lord to his fine black carriage, he leaned over to her, "Are you so sure, dearie? I have a dangerous reputation, I'm told."

Belle couldn't be sure, but in the darkening afternoon light, she thought she caught a hint of a genuine smile.

"I've not heard that you're given to debauching innocent maidens, sir," she spoke up boldly.

"Hmm," she heard him. "Just murder and extortion," he murmured. He guided her into his carriage.

Belle alighted and settled in across from the man. It was quite late in the afternoon, already bitterly cold and her simple cloth coat gave her minimal protection even though the carriage was a closed vehicle. She pulled her feet up and huddled against the wall of the carriage. He gave directions to his driver, a handsome dark-skinned man, regarding his next stop. He then settled in across from her but gave her little attention, attending to a small book that he wrote notations in as they rode along.

They stopped several times and always Master Goldark left her alone in the carriage while he went into buildings and houses to do business. By the time they had finished, it was quite dark. The carriage had turned around and Belle realized they were heading back to Master Goldark's home out near the coast. She'd had nothing to eat since her breakfast and, in the biting cold, was shivering uncontrollably, her fingers and toes long past numb.

They had been riding for some time, when. . .

"Is that you making that noise?" she heard him ask her suddenly. _He did not seem pleased._

"Yes sir, I. . .I. . .I'm sorry, but I'm rather cold. I guess. . . I guess my teeth were chattering. I'm sorry," she apologized.

She could see his eyes glinting in the moonlight that came through the carriage windows. He was wearing heavy boots, wool pants, a shirt, a vest, a jacket and an overcoat, along with fine leather gloves and a soft woven scarf. She had only her thin dress bolstered by her scanty threadbare undergarments and topped with her cloth coat _with not even the ugly, but serviceable pullover sweater that she had knitted from cast-off wool that some of the townswomen had passed onto her._ On her feet she wore her simple knitted socks _one of which she knew had a hole in it _and her shoes which had far too many worn places. She had no gloves, no scarf, and by now the cold had painfully and insidiously seeped in around her and through her.

He sighed and with the carriage moving, he stood and lifted up his seat to pull out a blanket. He tossed it over to her, "Here," he said brusquely.

She gratefully took the coarsely woven blanket, thanking the man. It was little better than a burlap bag and she suspected it was more often used for the horses than with passengers, but it was better than nothing. She folded it and wrapped it around herself pulling her legs up under her. She rested her head against the carriage wall and tried to quit shivering.

"Wake up!"

She stirred. She must have fallen asleep. She tried to stretch out her chilled limbs. She felt his hand on her arm pulling her up. She rose but her legs gave out from under her and, in the closeness of the carriage, she stumbled into him, falling into his arms, relishing the heat his body generated and feeling the warmth and comfort his sturdy frame fed into her. She leaned into him feeling his arms supporting her, his hands settling around her waist. He allowed her to snuggle against him, not pushing her away.

It was Belle who, as her body thawed, realized that she was in a most compromising position. The entire length of her body was pressed against his lean, hard strength. _She had never been this close to a man in her entire life. She could have been in a lover's embrace. _He was warm, yes, of course she had noticed that instantly, but he was also strong and comforting. She realized his hands were still on her waist _and the tops of his thumbs were just under her breasts. _The man would have no problem determining that she lacked proper undergarments, that at most there was only a chemise under her dress.

She pulled back, struggling but managing to stand on her own two feet. _She knew that she must have been blushing._

"Come along," he ordered, releasing her¸ "I'll show you your bedroom. Tomorrow I will explain your duties and, in the afternoon, I shall introduce you to Madame Goldark."

"Yes sir," Belle answered, grabbing the coarse blanket to keep wrapped around herself as she lurched from the carriage and then scampered behind the man as he went into the grand house.

"The lady of the house has likely engaged or retired," he explained and he led her up stairs, through the front entrance, down a hallway and then through a door and then down some stairs. It was quite dark and Belle could barely see where she was going. She nearly bumped into the new master when he stopped before one of the rooms, stopping to open the door and usher her in.

"This is my bedroom?" she asked.

"Well, that does sound better than 'dungeon'," he answered and pushing her in, he shut the door behind her. She heard the door lock.

Belle looked around the room. _It appeared more like a jail cell to her. A small room with stone walls, stone floors, and a heavy wooden door with large dark metal hinges. In the door, there was a small window with bars. There was another window high in the wall._

_He didn't have to lock her in! Did he think she was going to slit their throats, lift the family silver, steal a horse, and run away in the night!? _

There was a low cot with rough sheets and a single blanket. There was a basket which she guessed might be for clothing and other personal items, a privy pot and a small table with a plain wash basin. The moonlight streamed in the high window and she could see that there was also a single candle on the table but there was no way to light it.

Belle was still shivering as she stood in the room. Without any alternatives, she sat on the bed and removed her shoes. She realized her journal was, as always, still in her apron pocket and she removed it, setting it on the table. Keeping on her other clothes, including her simple cloth coat and her knitted socks, she settled the rough burlap blanket over the other blanket and then slipped between the ice cold sheets. Curled into a ball on the hard mattress, she tried to doze.

She was miserable.

Hungry, overwhelmed with anxiety regarding her rash decision to try to save her home and her father, the enormity of what she had done settled in - putting herself into the power of this stern, shadowy man? What had she been thinking? Who knew if he would try to compromise her virtue, beat her, sell her off to another master or any number of unsavory acts.

She felt herself begin to cry. Her tears streamed down her face and she heard herself as she sobbed into her pillow.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ -

Emma looked at the time. It was after eleven. She would be getting up early in the morning and needed to get onto bed.

_Damn. _The diary was fascinating. Emma already liked this girl, so brave and so smart, willing to sell herself, indenture herself into the power of this dark man, to do what she had to do to save her family. Apparently when she had been taken from her home, the only personal possession she had on her was this diary which she must have had in her apron pocket. After her first difficult night, she was able to obtain a pen and ink and began recounting her story.

Emma put the diary aside and then, reluctantly, took one of the pills her doctor had prescribed.

_Sleep disorder_. _Chronic insomnia. She had been diagnosed when she was still a teenager. Had gone through therapy, for a while had avoided caffeine (it hadn't helped), had gotten medication for depression and anxiety, nothing had helped._

Her physician had finally convinced her to try one of the new drugs for the problem. Emma was able to sleep with the drug but didn't like the odd dreams it gave her. _But the drug did keep away the other monsters, the monsters that would come and stand at the foot of her bed, waiting. . . _

_Probably not the best idea to mix the sleeping pill with the wine._

As she snuggled down in the bed her thoughts returned to Belle, left in a cold, dark cell with only a couple of inadequate blankets to keep her warm. _I'm going to have to put central heating in my Gratitude Journal, thought Emma as the drug began to shut down her conscious thought processes. _

**The song is Israel "Iz" Kaʻanoʻi Kamakawiwoʻole's version of "Over the Rainbow" (original by Harburg and Arlen)**

**Thank you, thank you, thank you to my amazing and encouraging reviewers (I hope the first of the 'diary' chapters did not disappoint): jewel415, DruidKitty, Anne Andrews, RoxyMoron, Wondermorena, cheesyteal'c, Grace5231973, Tinuviel Undomiel, Erik'sTrueAngel, emospritelet, Aletta-Feather, thedoctorsgirl42, MyraValhallah, Ying-Fa-dono**

_NEXT: The Team explores the house _

_Emma finds a Poison Garden_

_Emma has a personal experience_


	5. The Poison Garden

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 5**

**The Poison Garden**

_One look could kill_

_My pain, your thrill_

_I want to love you but I better not touch (Don't touch)_

_I want to hold you but my senses tell me to stop_

_I want to kiss you but I want it too much (Too much)_

_I want to taste you but your lips are venomous poison_

_You're poison running through my veins_

_You're poison, I don't wanna break these chains_

_Poison_

The Alice Cooper tune came in over Jefferson's Pandora station. Emma was riding from town out to The House with Jefferson, Clarissa, Millie, and Rory. Leroy was following along very slowly in large cumbersome van carrying the heavy equipment, along with Archie and Hooker. Emma was directing where to turn so that they didn't miss the little side road. They lumbered along the narrow treacherous roadway moving at a snail's pace. Emma was surprised she didn't receive a caustic call from Leroy but, then again, she had prepared him for what they would be traveling on.

As they burst out from under the tree canopy, the girls collectively gasped.

"That is so beautiful!" "Wow!" "That's where we're going, that's so amazing!" They were all impressed.

"Ms. Nolen is the concierge of the place. A really nice lady. I've told her that I will want you all to wander around the place and then we'll meet back before we get her to give us the Ghost Tour," Emma told them.

They knew Emma's procedures from her class so she got all around nods. They were to walk through and see what, if anything, stood out to them. Emma parked the car and watched as the groups pulled together and branched out, Rory with Millie and Jefferson, Clarissa and Hooker and Archie. Emma, as was her wont, went out on her own. Leroy collected the recorders Emma had left in the three rooms and got busy listening through them in his techno-van.

Emma began her walk clockwise around the house. She had to smile at herself; she was kowtowing to an old childhood admonition: _Never walk widdershins around a church_. This was hardly a church but the old habit didn't leave her. She would not walk counter-clockwise around a building if she could help it.

Boy, the place was big. There were a myriad of paths winding through the dense, dark woods. She could see the house through the branches of the trees, mostly barren in the late fall. She could see what she suspected was Mr. and Ms. Nolen's place a very short ways off from the big house. There was a big white truck parked out in front of the place. Emma found another path that she guessed led through the trees and went over to the ocean. Through more trees and she suddenly was finding her way up to a high brick wall covered over in moss and ivy and, and following the path, she circled around the wall to a black iron gate. She tested and opened the gate and found that she had made her way to yet another garden, this one completely enclosed by the brick wall and separate from the large flower and herb gardens standing in mourning near the front of the house.

Nothing remarkable here. These plants sitting dormant didn't seem to have anything special to recommend them. Most were not at all pretty and Emma couldn't imagine what they might look like in full bloom. There weren't any herbs that she recognized, not that her herbal repertoire extended much beyond basil and rosemary. She stopped by one particularly unattractive tree. There were some dried fruit smaller than apples lying on the ground. She knelt down to pick one up.

"It's a good idea to wear gloves when you are handling the plants in this garden," Emma heard a woman's voice behind her. She startled, not having heard anyone come up behind her and turned, looking up, from her kneeling position. It was the same woman she had seen yesterday working in the garden. A pretty, delicate brunette in a long blue skirt, a white blouse and an apron. She had sparkling blue eyes and a gentle smile.

"Really?" Emma asked her.

"This is a Poison Garden," the woman answered her still smiling. "Every plant that grows here is toxic one way or another. The little tree you're looking at is nux vomica. You probably know it as strychnine."

Emma snatched her hand back and stood up.

The other woman gave her a short laugh. "You're all right. The poison is in the seeds. Not like this plant," she motioned Emma's attention to another bush that was set in a pot. "Oleander. Every part is poisonous but the sap is most deadly." The woman gently patted the plant. "This one will need to be put into the greenhouse soon as it won't survive the winter out here."

Emma nodded. She was familiar with oleander and its suspected role in the deaths at Myrtles Plantation in New Orleans. "What about this one?" she asked about a vining plant with large leaves.

"Ah. The poison of this one is also in the seed pods. The castor bean plant. The poison is ricin. Even a small amount is deadly." She walked down the path. "Some of these have contact poison, like these two."

Emma recognized the plant with three leaves, "Poison ivy?"

The woman nodded. "A beautiful plant, but it can't be touched. The other little plant here is rue. Not everyone reacts to either plant. There are many others but you won't see them right now, but in the spring these beds are filled with green hellebore, black cohosh, larkspur, lobelia, and of course monkshood, also called wolfsbane. There's jimsom weed, also called thorn apple, mandrake and tobacco." She stopped and pointed to one skeletal remains that resembled a scrawny tomato plant, "This little plant is belladonna."

She started walking again, "If we go down near the water we might be able to see calamus, hemlock, male fern, and cuckoopint. And over here is a large bed of foxgloves. They are pretty sad looking this time of year."

She stopped and looked over the spires of the stately plants, "Now they are an interesting way to poison someone. You give small doses over a period of time. The poison slowly accumulates to kill its victim."

She then pointed at some gold and silver-grey plants, "Still looking nice even this late in the year are scotch broom, mugwort, which will give you strange dreams and its cousin, wormwood from which they make absinthe."

She continued, "In the tree over there is mistletoe which can also be used to protect you from witchcraft. You should put it with more kindly herbs such as angelica and hazelnut that you can find in the herb garden in the front of the house. Salt and iron are good to use against the dark arts, also."

Emma shook her head. "Why on earth would people have these plants growing around their house?!" she asked in amazement.

"Years ago, these were used in medicinal preparations. Some, like black cohosh, are still used. It's all in how the plant is used. A small amount is medicine, but. . . ," the woman shrugged and smiled, "what is a poison but 'too much' of something?" She led Emma towards the gate. "Usually there is a lock on this gate."

"Maybe Ms. Nolen just forgot and left it opened?" speculated Emma.

"No, no," the woman replied, gazing off for a moment, "Mary Margaret did not forget. She is very vigilant and careful. Someone else," she said softly, "yes, someone else opened it. They opened it to create mischief . . . and perhaps harm."

"Well, I'll let Ms. Nolen know. I don't think she'll be happy to find it was left open," Emma looked around. There must be over thirty plants in the place, allowing for space and what she could see still above the ground. The garden for all of its sinister composition was well-tended and the plants had been cared for.

"Mary Margaret has special tours in the spring and summer," the woman told her.

Emma had stopped to look at some of the other plants the woman had not named for her. She was now alert enough not to touch anything growing in the walled garden. Finding an odd green vine, she asked "What's this one?" When there was no answer, she looked around. The woman had gone.

_Well now, that was just odd. _Emma left the garden, pulling the gate shut behind herself and continued circling the house. Before getting all the way back to the front she found a high iron fence enclosing a small area, a graveyard, not unusual to find around these older estates. The tombstones were soapstone and for most part it was impossible to read any of the inscriptions. One was larger than the others and the headstone appeared to be marble. She made her way over to it.

_Rumach Goldark_

No date, no inscription.

"So this is where you ended up, huh, big guy?" She looked around but couldn't make out any other names that she had heard so far. _No Cora. No Belle. _

She left the graveyard and made her way back to the front door. She went on into the building. Mary Margaret greeted her.

"Your people are already walking through," the pretty concierge told her. "I think there's one group in the basement right now and another one upstairs."

"Great, I'm going to wander around a little more myself," Emma told her. "Oh, I did find the lock to the poison garden unfastened."

Mary Margaret vaulted up. "Oh my god! How did that happen? I was just out there a couple of days ago and I know I locked the place up! This is so irritating . . . and frightening!"

"Has this happened before?" Emma asked.

"Not that I know of. We're very careful to keep that place locked up. It's very dangerous! I'm so glad you recognized what it was. Most people wouldn't," Mary Margaret had grabbed some keys and was heading out the door.

"Well, I didn't exactly know what it was. I had almost picked up some seed pods with strychnine," Emma told her. "But your pretty gardener lady stopped me."

Mary Margaret stopped. "My gardener?" she asked.

"Uh huh, a little brunette with bright blue eyes."

Mary Margaret stood very still. She took a deep breath. "Emma, I'm not sure how to tell you this. . ." she began.

"She was very helpful," Emma went on. "Told me about a lot of the plants. I saw her yesterday too when I drove up," Emma was chatting on.

"Emma. We don't have a brunette with bright blue eyes who works here." She looked Emma directly in the eyes. "There _used_ to be a brunette with bright blue eyes who worked here."

####/####

The group had reconvened in the library except for Leroy who was still going over the tapes.

"Well, who wants to go first?" Emma asked the group.

Everyone looked at everyone else. The group sat quietly for a while, with most of them casting their eyes down, except for Jefferson who were more experienced with the process.

It was Jefferson who spoke first, "That red room made me ill."

"Me too," several other members of the group immediately spoke up.

"Why do you think that was?" Emma asked, taking notes.

"The color and the room was stifling," Jefferson explained. "I felt like I was inside of a body, like a big beating heart was surrounding me. I could see people getting sick in that room."

"Anybody else?" Emma asked.

Young Clarissa spoke up. "I felt unwelcome. I know that's just a feeling, but I felt unwelcome."

Emma nodded. "Why do you think you felt that way?" she asked gently.

Clarissa shook her head, "I don't know. It was just unpleasant, as if someone didn't want me there."

Emma wrote down her investigator's impression. "Anyone else?" She could see Rory hesitating.

"I felt threatened," Rory whispered.

"Really?"

"I felt that something might happen to me if I stayed in that room. I couldn't get out soon enough."

Millie agreed, "Rory seemed pretty spooked. Jefferson and I opted to get her out of that room."

"Anyone else have any comments about the Red Room?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"Anywhere else?" Emma asked.

Colin Hooker looked around, "This room," he began.

"Yes?"

"While I was here I felt. . . I felt a female presence. It was like my 'hot chick at twelve o'clock meter' went off but it was when I was in here by myself. There wasn't anyone else here."

"Your 'hot chick meter'?" Emma knew she would regret asking this.

Colin gave her a smirk, "Yeah, like when I'm at a club with a lot of people and suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I know, I just know there's a really nice looking woman in the vicinity."

"Kinda like your super-power?" Emma asked wearily.

"Kinda. I mean, I do manage to leave clubs and bars with the best looking woman on my arm."

"Okay," Emma was ready to move on, "Anything else you can tell us about the female presence?"

"I thought I smelled her perfume. It was like," he shrugged. . . "flowers?"

"Like roses and lavender and clean soap," Archie said. "I smelt it too."

"I feel really comfortable and safe in this room," Millie shared.

Rory was again sitting quietly as if she was going to say something but was unsure of herself.

"Rory?" Emma asked, trying not to spook the sensitive girl.

"I felt . . . aroused. Like I was with somebody that really, really turned me on. I kept expecting to be kissed or felt up or . . . " Rory had taken on her dreamy look and was absently twisting her hair. "Like I'm waiting for someone to come in, someone I care about, who cares about me, but we can't let anyone know. This is our secret place that we meet."

Everyone turned to look at her. Rory re-focused, looked around, and blushed. "I can't explain it. It's like this room was used for some illicit passionate affair or something. I just feel the love."

"I just saw books, books, books and thought I could stay in this room forever!" shared Clarissa.

Emma and group laughed kindly. "All right, now anywhere else?"

"Oh lord yes, the basement," it was Millie's turn. "I went there and got so cold and so depressed."

"Me too," agreed Archie and Clarissa. The group turned to Rory.

"So sad. So sad. That one room. I felt like everything was hopeless and I was trapped."

"Interesting," said Emma, writing down the impressions. _Rory was indeed an interesting addition to the group for sure. She seemed to pick up on strong impressions that the rooms provided that everyone else was tapping into just on a marginal level. Emma didn't believe in mediums, but it was evident that Rory could probably make her living as one._

"All right, folk. We have the Red Room, the basement room and here, the library. Anywhere else?" she wasn't expecting to hear about anything more and was about to close her notebook, when. . . it was Clarissa who spoke up.

"The attic," she said.

"Yeah?" Emma hadn't heard about any phenomena in the attic _well there was that thing with the curtain moving that she had thought she had seen._

"There's a large room up there with a rocking chair. I walked in and I felt like . . . I don't know. . . I felt like someone was watching me. I wasn't afraid. I didn't feel threatened or like there was anything that wanted to hurt me." Clarissa was talking slowly. "I sat in the chair and I would swear that someone touched my hair." She shrugged. "I know, there must have been a draft."

"We'll have to check it out," Emma told her. "Anything else? Anything at all?" she asked and when no one else spoke up, she stretched and summarized, "So, I'm hearing from the preliminaries that there are four rooms that caught our attention." _At least three of these rooms had peculiarities of lighting, air flow, coloring; she knew she'd have to check out the attic. _

_Emma knew from her research that if you went into an old house looking for spooks you'd find them. The human mind was amazingly amenable to believing that dim lighting, shadows, cool temperatures, stray smells and such like were explainable by the supernatural. She wanted evidence before succumbing, because feelings meant nothing. As far as she was concerned, her group picking up on the hot spots wasn't evidence of the paranormal; it was more evidence that the ambience of the setting was conducive to producing the heebies in the typical person. _

"Great job group. You did fantastic," she complimented them.

"How about you Emma?" Jefferson was asking. "Did you stumble into anything?"

"Yeah, in the back is a walled garden. It is usually locked, but somebody had unlocked it. It's dangerous, a Poison Garden," she told everyone. "I walked into it clueless, but I met a young woman there who warned me about some of the plants." Emma considered her next statement. "Ms. Nolen told me that the woman I saw doesn't work here," she paused for effect, "anymore."

"You saw a ghost?!" Jefferson asked her.

Emma pulled a face. "I promise you, the woman I saw looked as real as anybody here. I couldn't see through her. She looked at me, spoke to me, we conversed."

"Who was she?" asked Leroy.

"I don't know. Ms. Nolen is telling me that I saw the ghost of Belle French who was a servant . . . ." she hesitated knowing from the woman's diary that she wasn't, strictly speaking. a servant, but opted to go on, " a servant in the house, but I'm telling you there was nothing ghostly about the woman I saw. I want everyone to keep a look out for her. She is a pretty brunette, petite, with amazing blue eyes. She was wearing a long blue skirt, a white blouse and an apron. Ms. Nolen tells me she's often seen at dusk, walking around with a lit candle."

**A.N. Feeling the love here, thank you thank you, amazing reviewers: RaFire (3 & 4), jewel415, Tinuviel Undomiel, RoxyMoron, Wondermorena, Guest (didn't disappoint), cheesyteal'c, Erik'sTrueAngel, NamelessWildflower, Aletta-Feather, emospritele, and Grace5231973. **

**SONG: Poison (sung by Alice Cooper) co-written by Desmond Child and John McCurry**

_NEXT: Mary Margaret shares some House history_

_Belle's diary reveals her first day and her new duties_


	6. Duties

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 6**

**Duties**

_Got a black magic woman  
Got a black magic woman  
I've got a black magic woman  
Got me so blind I can't see  
That she's a black magic woman  
She's trying to make a devil out of me  
Don't turn your back on me baby  
Don't turn your back on me baby  
Yes, don't turn your back on me baby  
Stop messing round with your tricks  
Don't turn your back on me baby  
You just might pick up my magic sticks_

Mary Margaret, who'd been listening to (and singing along with) an old Santana CD, came out of her little office quite ready to take the group around on the Ghost Tour of the house. They had all gathered. Archie, Clarissa and Emma had clipboards.

"Let's start in the basement and work our way to the top," Mary Margaret suggested. She led the group downstairs and they listened while she covered some of the original history of the house, how it was built by the town's richest citizen for his new wife back in the late 1700's. The Revolutionary War was over and the town had gone back to fishing, whaling and importing/exporting as the primary sources of income.

Rumach Goldark, it was said, had come to Storybrooke from Scotland, likely an orphan and, according to the best sources, he'd started as a lowly cabin boy but had risen rapidly in the shipping business after apprenticing himself to the particularly ruthless, but very successful, Captain Zosa. Soon enough, Rumach had his own ship, then ships. He was not well liked because his supremely adept bargaining skills put everyone else at a disadvantage. Then, his very rapid rise to reputedly great wealth created some bad feelings. There were plenty of rumors that he'd made a deal with the devil. For a while everything the man touched turned to gold. He went and married the village beauty.

But then things seemed to begin to unravel. Perhaps his beauty was not meant to be a sailor's wife; such women are content to have their husbands gone for long months. Whatever, his wife seemed to have been very unhappy in the marriage, despite having a son with her husband. She indulged in a number of flagrant indiscretions before disappearing when the boy was four. Rumach's story was always that she had absconded with some pirate, but many people felt that he had gotten tired of her philandering and he had strangled her or pushed her out one of the high windows of the grand house or both.

The group had arrived en masse in the dark basement with the stone walls and floor. Mary Margaret pointed out the side room. "This is where many people hear crying."

The group looked from one to another. This was in sync with their perceptions of feelings of sadness.

"Do you ever feel frightened or feel like any one is watching you down here?" asked Jefferson.

Mary Margaret shook her head. "Not really," she paused. And right before leading the group upstairs she added, "I do feel sad here. Others have reported feeling despondent, down, sad, lonely, all those types of feelings."

Emma heard Colin mutter to Clarissa, "Creepy."

The group then went back upstairs into the library. After the group had settled into the comfortable wooden chairs placed all around the large room, Mary Margaret continued. "This is where Rumach did most of his work, at this very desk. After the disappearance of his first wife, he was alone in the house for a couple of years raising his son. When his son went off to European boarding school, Rumach made a couple more voyages and, on the last one, he brought home a beautiful new wife, Cora Mills. He'd picked her up in Barbados." Mary Margaret paused, "She had a very unsavory reputation."

"Voodoo?" Jefferson asked.

"Probably. Some type of dark magic that likely involved blood sacrifice, so go the stories," Mary Margaret explained. "She was a great beauty, but there were certainly rumors that she was some kind of a witch, a quite suitable wife for a man reputed to be the minion of the devil."

"So what happened?" asked Clarissa.

"Not exactly sure. Some speculation centers around a beautiful, young servant girl, Belle French, that Mr. Goldark brought into the home and perhaps she came between them. Perhaps he wanted to replace his wife with a younger model. Perhaps Mrs. G. was upset and jealous of her husband's attention to the younger woman. Perhaps, perhaps. It's also possible that the girl wasn't an issue between the two – they were both very volatile people. And after all, Cora was suspected of having poisoned her first husband, why not her second? Rumach was suspected of killing the first wife, why not his second? We really don't know," shared Mary Margaret.

"So what happens in this room?" Emma brought the history lesson to a close for the moment.

Mary Margaret continued, "We think the spirit of Miss French haunts this room. This was a literate, well-educated young woman and she spent much of her time here. We're not sure exactly what her capacity in the household was, but this was also Rumach's office, so we don't think she was an ordinary servant, but whatever she did for the household, those two probably spent a lot of time together. People report a lot of things moving around in this room. If you put a book out on the table, the next morning it will be put back in its place. If you rearrange the furniture, back in its place. Close the curtains, they'll be opened. Several researchers have gotten some very interesting EVP's in this room. Miss French is apparently quite chatty."

"No one feels threatened here?" Jefferson asked again.

Mary Margaret smiled, "Not at all. The spirit that hangs around this room is friendly and helpful."

"Does anyone see anything in this room?" asked Emma.

"No, but a few people have reported encountering a woman who fits her description on the grounds. The encounters have always been in the daylight or just after sunset and all the ones I know have happened just as the person was about to get in trouble – like they'd gotten off the path in the woods and the woman directs them back."

"Or they went into the poison garden without knowing what it was?" Emma supplied.

Mary Margaret nodded, smiling at Emma, "Exactly."

When there were no more questions, the group began to go up the stairs.

"So what finally happened between the Goldarks?" Archie asked.

"Cora Goldark suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. Rumach claimed that she had been trying to poison him in his wine and, as she was about to give him a lethal dose, he had switched wine glasses. Belle French disappeared at the same time. We don't know if Belle drank some poison wine, or if she witnessed the crime and he offed her or if she just took the opportunity to high-tail it out of here. Because of his money and position in the community, Rumach was never charged with a crime. We don't know what happened to either woman for sure, but Rumach spent his remaining years in this house, pretty much alone. He stopped leaving the house and eventually died in the house."

"Where in the house?" asked Clarissa suddenly.

Mary Margaret shook her head, "We don't know. There was a groomsman that more or less became his personal manservant, one William Augustus Glass. He had come with Cora from Barbados, but he seemed to have been loyal to Mr. Goldark. He was the one to report and register the death. Goldark apparently left young Mr. Glass a lot of money and a strip of land, very unusual for the time as Mr. Glass was a black man from Africa."

"Did they suspect foul play?" asked Colin.

"If they did, no one cared to investigate it. Mr. Glass got his money and property and the family has done well for themselves. They now own a string of hotels along the coast and the local newspaper, among other things."

"And what finally happened to Mr. Goldark?" asked Archie.

"He's buried on the estate," Mary Margaret shared.

"Why not in a churchyard?" Emma asked.

"Well, again it's all rumor. But supposedly the local church refused his remains."

"So sad," Rory said. "He died all alone."

"He was a nasty person by all accounts and I would guess that most people around felt like the devil had come back to get his own when the man died," Mary Margaret explained. "He was not missed."

"And the house now belongs to. . .?" Emma asked.

"A descendent of his one and only offspring, his son by his first wife. None of his descendants have ever lived in the house. Now," Mary Margaret had reached the door of the Red Room, "this is the room which has a lot of . . . negative energy and people have been hurt in this room. I'm serious. This room is dangerous. People get sick, they get pushed, they get scratched, bitten, kicked, hit, thrown, pinched, anything you can think of. The furniture is reported to move, even the heavy armoire which takes multiple people to shift has gone skirting across the room. The big, heavy bed will go up and down like a wild, bucking horse. People feel suffocated, threatened¸"

"Any EVP's come out of here?" asked Jefferson.

Mary Margaret nodded. "Some frightening ones. It sounds like a woman's voice telling people that they're going to die, that they're cursed, that they're gonna go to hell, to get out. They'll hear mocking laughter."

"And no one has been able to last a night in this room?" Emma confirmed.

"Most groups don't last an hour. No one has been able to go the entire night, not in a very long time."

"Did Cora die in this room?" asked Rory.

"We don't really know," Mary Margaret told them and opened the door. The group silently filed in.

"Ok class," Emma addressed the group. "Several of you felt very uncomfortable in this room. Tell me why."

"Certainly there are a number of environmental cues."

"Agreed, the color is overwhelming, like you're inside of some animal."

"And it's stifling in here, no air movement."

"And I can hear the wind whistling which could be interpreted as a voice."

Emma nodded. "Explain the attacks."

"Sleep paralysis?"

"Self-inflicted."

"Externalized dreams?"

"Lying?"

"Drunken stupor?"

"Medication gone awry?"

"Psychotic episode?"

Emma nodded. They had paid such good attention in class. She turned and spoke to Mary Margaret, "One in this group had an experience in the attic. She felt a presence and thought she had been touched."

"Really?" Mary Margaret was interested. "Of course people don't regularly get up to the attic. It's used for storage for seasonal decorations and linens and such. And there are a couple of pieces of unused furniture up there."

"Never had any sense of being watched?" Emma asked.

"Dr. Swan, really, in this house? I always feel like I'm being watched. I've gotten used to it and I usually don't feel threatened or let it bother me," Mary Margaret responded. "But I've never had any odd experiences in the attic."

Emma nodded, "Thank you so much." She turned to her group, "Now let's thank Ms. Nolen and all go back outside. We need to decide on our game plan for tonight, including what equipment we need to put where."

While they ate a delicious buffet lunch that Mary Margaret had put out for them, the group worked on their game plan for the evening. They decided that tonight they would put the strobe lights with the infra-red recording camera in the library in the hopes that it would attract the spirit of Belle French and they might be able to catch a glimpse of her. They also easily agreed to use the EMF recorders to see if there were any disturbances in the electromagnetic field. At everyone's urging, Emma agreed to use the spirit box in the library.

The basement, well they weren't expecting to find much activity there, but they did want to see if they could record the sobbing sound. An EVP recorder and a data logger (to see if there were any real temperature fluctuations) were selected.

For the Red Room, they opted to set up another infra-red camera and use an EVP recorder along with a static meter that would supposedly light up if a spirit walked by. Emma insisted on putting a second data logger in this room.

Emma and Jefferson took on the job of setting up in the Red Room.

"Batteries went out," Jefferson told her as he checked the static meter. "And on the EVP recorder too."

"We've got replacements," Emma told him.

Jefferson replaced the batteries and went back to setting up the camera. When he went back to double-check the other equipment, Emma heard him swear.

"What now?"

"Batteries went out again."

"Oh my, are we in spook-central or do we just have cheap-ass batteries? We'll stop at the hardware store in town and pick up some Duracell's," Emma told him. Under her breath he heard her mutter, "Wish we could find some Magicell batteries that would last nearly forever. We wouldn't have this problem."

It was nearly three o'clock when they had finished setting everything up. Everyone else's batteries were doing fine. They fetched Leroy who had been listening to tapes all afternoon and, although Mary Margaret had offered to feed them supper, they had declined, not wanting to take advantage of her hospitality. They drove back to town to rest up and agreed to meet for supper at the diner at seven.

Emma stopped at the hardware store to load up on high-end batteries and picked up some ice to put in the cooler where she had stashed a couple dozen Monster drinks and Red Bulls.

Emma returned to her room and feeling the diary calling her, she decided to get in a few more pages.

OOO000ooo000OOO

It was barely dawn when Belle heard the door being unlocked. She felt like she was frozen and part of her wondered if she would ever be warm again.

"Rise and shine, dearie. Time to get to work." It was Master Goldark, dressed impeccably in a black suit with a soft white shirt. He wore shiny black boots and sported a vest embroidered with red dragons. Belle slipped on her shoes and, still uncomfortably cold, managed to smooth back her hair and walk out of the room, still wearing her coat and still wrapped in the burlap blanket.

Walking behind the man, she felt she had to speak up or he would be left with the impression that the frozen dungeon cell was an acceptable accommodation.

"You know I would probably work better if I got better sleep. It's very hard to rest when you're cold and damp," she was talking to the back of Master Goldark as he had already begun walking up the stairs. He stopped and slowly turned to face her, looking down at her from the steps above her.

"Madame?" he questioned.

"The room was uncomfortable to the point that I feel I may become ill if I'm forced to stay in these wretched conditions. Is there no other room in this entire large house that has heat and light and. . . if you believe I'm going to steal your family treasures while you sleep and slit your throats on the way out. . . a lock on the door?" She stood her ground _hoping she wouldn't find out if he were one of those very cruel employers who would beat impertinence out of their servants. It would be consistent with what she had heard about the man._

"So," he began, "you're not impressed with the accommodations?"

Belle was very, very nervous, but she had started this conversation, so she would continue it. "If you want me to be able to do my best work, I can't be spending all of my time trying to stay warm. Is there not another room in this house with some heat and light, not so damp?"

He regarded her for some time and Belle felt as if an icy claw had wrapped itself around her heart. Would he be outraged, amused, accommodating? His face did not reveal any of his feelings.

Finally he shrugged, "I will have someone look into it for you," he finally told her.

Belle realized she'd been holding her breath _like she had just faced down a fire-breathing dragon._

The room they came to at the top of the stairs was a small area with a single window, one door to the outside and another door going into a hallway in the house. The walls had been whitewashed and along the ceiling and single window was simple wood trim. In one corner was a small black wood burning stove, set with a single tea kettle. The room was not particularly clean. The floor could have used a good sweeping and there were cobwebs up in the high corners of the wall. The curtains on the windows needed washing.

Along the inside wall was a plain sideboard which had been set with a meager breakfast. In the center of the room was a sturdy table with four chairs around it. The table was set on a braided rug. On the sideboard, Belle found some hard, stale bread and some bitter butter. There was also some very good tea. She saw that Master Goldark was pulling off the same buffet so it wasn't like she was getting kitchen scraps.

_The very rich were not eating better than the very poor, she thought. _

At her father's shop, at this time of year, she would have prepared a hot cereal with a mix of some of the wild and the cultivated grains, maybe tossed in a few berries, toasted some day-old bread, with quality butter, put out some preserves, perhaps even have a little leftover fish – this was a fishing town after all- and, if their chickens had been so inclined, perhaps a couple of eggs. Being a good patriotic household they had coffee to drink rather than tea.

What she was seeing here bespoke of poor household management.

"And shall I be meeting Madame Goldark this morning?" Belle asked as she sat at the table across from him and ate the unappetizing food _she was after all quite hungry._

She was surprised to hear Master Goldark give a short laugh. "I think not. Madame Goldark rarely rises before noon." He pushed away from the table. "This morning I will be introducing you to your duties."

Belle was struggling with the hard, stale bread, finally dipping it into her tea to soften it. "Yes sir. When do we start?"

Puzzled, Goldark watched her with the bread and tea. Her liveliness and spirit were a curiosity to him. He would have expected her to be tear-faced and sniveling. And terrified of him. Most everyone was terrified of him. If she was, she didn't show it, having already confronted him over his abysmal treatment of her the night before. She was chatting on as if he were one of her little girl friends. She was absorbed with trying to make her breakfast palatable and didn't notice anything until it occurred to her that he had not answered. She looked up, meeting his eyes.

"Sir?" she asked.

"The food is not to your liking?" he asked. He personally thought the food was less adequate than something he might have had on board ship after they'd been at sea for three months, but he was interested in how she would describe it.

"It's a little hard and the butter is bitter. . . " she realized that it might not be in her best interests to continue to criticize his household, "but it's fine, all fine." She stuffed another bite into her mouth and began chewing. . . and chewing.

_So some honesty but then she had cowed and lied. _So she was a little scared of him after all.

Good. A little spirit was tolerable, but he was master in his house and he preferred his servants to be tractable.

"Bring your tea and come into the library when you are finished," he directed her and left her to her cold, hard breakfast.

"Where's the library? Where's the library?" Belle asked herself wandering down the hall carrying her tea on its saucer. She certainly hadn't been given a tour of the house last night. She went down the hall, passing a large formal dining area and several small seating areas. She turned the corner and on one side was the front door and on the other was a staircase. On the other side of the staircase she saw it.

The library.

Belle entered and her mouth gapped open. There were more books in this place than she had ever seen anywhere else all put together.

Master Goldark was standing by a desk at the far wall as she walked in.

"So many!" she said in awe. "Have you read them all?"

He glanced around, "What? Oh, the books? Most of them."

"How wonderful!" She set her tea down and began to examine different volumes. Some were not in English and she considered those as carefully as the English volumes. She then noted a chess set already set up on one of the smaller side tables.

Rumach Goldark was prepared to launch into the list of duties he had prepared for the little wench, _but she was talking . . . again. _Not that her voice was unpleasant to listen to. But he was unaccustomed to prattling. _What was she jabbering on about? Playing chess. She played chess? She wanted to play a game of chess with him sometime? _He very nearly snorted. He really didn't have time to waste playing chess with a mere female.

She was looking at him. Waiting for an answer. Her eyes were bright and sparkling and her smile just as brilliant.

"Perhaps, sometime, if your work is all done . . . I might be able to spend some time . . . in a game." _He had relented in the face of her enthusiasm. What was wrong with him?_

"Splendid! Oh, please sir, I see you have a copy of Doctor Thomas Arnold's books, and I see the Essay of Health and Long Life, and Gerard's An Essay on Taste, and Joseph Glanville's work on the scientific method, and, oh my, you have so many of the books by Mister John Locke . . . " she was slowly going through his library, focusing on his books on medicine and philosophy, her fingers caressing the spines of the selected volumes.

"You can read on your own time, Miss French. I need you to sit down and listen to your duties."

She promptly complied after one last wistful look at his library. She sat down and turned her attention to him, her large eyes still sparkling. The lightness of her eyes allowed him to catch the expansion of her pupils. _She had been excited by his books!_ _Damn!_ She had picked up her cup and begun to sip the tea.

"You will help me with my financial records, entering in payments and loans and sundry expenses and all my receipts. You will help me with any correspondence I have. Now, I never allow other people to come in here, not cleaning staff, not even my wife, so I think it will be a good plan for you to start to keep this room clean – to dust and sweep and whatever else needs to be done. I will also want you to bring me my tea regularly – you shall learn my schedule soon enough." He paused then added, "I'm very particular about my tea."

Belle was nodding and answering, "Yes sir, yes sir," throughout his litany.

He continued, "Of course from time to time, I do arrange for the occasional murder and I will be wanting you to deliver the payment for this service."

Startled, Belle stood, the teacup falling out of her hand to the floor. She heard it hit the floor. Her expressive face reflected her dismay.

"That was a joke," he told her.

She let out a deep breath, "Of course. Of course." She knelt down and retrieved the cup. There was a large chip in the rim. "Oh no. I've broken your cup." She closed her eyes. She knew well enough that servants had been whipped for such carelessness. And this man had a reputation for cruelty. And he carried a cane. She braced herself, expecting a blow.

There was a long period of silence and finally she peeked up at him.

He was looking down at her and seemed almost puzzled, "It's just a cup."

Belle managed a weak smile. _The man jokes about murder._

_At least . . . he said it was a joke. _

**The song (of course) is Black Magic Woman written by Peter Green (sung by Santana).**

**Thank you, Thank you, thank you, all you wonderful reviewers (and all those people who are following and favoriting this story): jewel415, NamelessWildflower, Grace5231973, All Hallows' Eve31, RaFire, cheesyteal'c, Wondermorena, Aletta-Feather, cynicsquest, Sandpiper, SFA (Guest)(I hadn't thought of bringing in Phillip – will consider it, thx), Erik'sTrueAngel (Guest), Shadow's Echo, morgananne16, thedoctorsgirl42, mockorangeflower, DruidKitty and juju0268. **

_NEXT: Belle meets Madame Goldark and plays a chess game_

_Emma has a bit of a fright _


	7. Accountings

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 7**

**Accountings**

_I am just a poor boy.  
Though my story's seldom told,  
I have squandered my resistance  
For a pocket full of mumbles, Such are promises  
All lies and jests  
Still a man hears what he wants to hear  
And disregards the rest_

Emma had ridden with Leroy out to the house singing along with _The Boxer_ with Simon and Garfunkel and Leroy.

She was thinking of the strange, tenuous relationship between delightful, energetic Belle and the caustic, enigmatic Mr. Goldark. Belle had waxed on in the diary regarding the man's library and his kindness toward her when she had chipped one of his china cups after he had made an outrageous statement. It seemed to Emma that Goldark didn't know quite what to make of the smart, forthright young woman. And as for Belle, it was as if she was beginning to see more depth to this powerful man, but was still wisely leery of him. Emma didn't quite trust the man's intentions toward the young woman.

Emma was also considering her strange encounter with the pretty brunette. The woman had in no way seemed to be a ghost. Of course, Emma acknowledged, she really didn't know what a ghost would actually look like, if they even existed _which she doubted_. The consensus was they would be transparent and. . . uh . . . floaty. The woman she had met was solid and moved about on two legs like any person.

As she and Leroy rode out to the house in a comfortable, companionable silence, Emma realized that this was one of the many reasons she liked Leroy. She could ride with him for miles with neither of them saying anything, with neither one getting offended.

But this evening, Emma broke the silence, speaking up, "Leroy, you've been quiet. Hear anything this morning on those tapes?" she asked the taciturn tech man, referring to the baseline tapes from the recorders she had left in the three "infested" rooms of the house. If there were entities, then when her people attempted contact the number of odd sounds should dramatically increase; otherwise it would indicate that the house was just in a hot spot for ambient airwaves.

"Yeah, I actually did. I'll have to get you to listen to it. I didn't pick up anything from the dungeon or the Red Room, but there were some interesting sounds coming out of the library."

Leroy knew better than to tell Emma what he thought he'd heard. So often these sounds were so garbled that you could hear just about anything, anything you wanted to hear. Someone telling you what they had heard would impact on what you would think you heard. The phenomenon was called _pareidolia_, the tendency for people to overlay sense into something that was vague or didn't make sense, so people would hear "garble garble" but translate it as "gabled garden" or some such thing that made sense to them. With visual stimuli the process was called _matrixing_ and it was what made people see faces in wood grain, in rock formations on Mars and on potato chips.

"The recording was pretty clear," he told her.

They had pulled in at the house probably about an hour before the rest of the crew would be coming along.

"I can listen now," Emma told him.

"You sure you want to?"

"Leroy, you're scaring me. You're acting strange."

He pulled a face, "All right. All right." He motioned her to the back of the van and into one of the equipment stations. "Here, put on the earphones."

Emma complied. She listened.

She took off the earphones and looked at Leroy.

"That is pretty clear. Any more like that?" she asked him.

"Nope. Just that one clear comment."

Emma nodded and pulled herself up and out of the equipment chair to head on into the house.

She stood outside looking at the house. "You are a pretty spooky place, aren't you?" she said. _This place was going to one tough nut to debunk._

She thought about the voice on the tape, a woman's voice, a clear woman's voice, a voice coming out of the library.

"_zzzzzzzzzzzzzz__**hello**__zzzzzzzzzzz__**Emma**__zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz__**welcome**__zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_"

_Pareidolia, my ass._

Emma knew she would have some time before the rest of crew came in. She opted to sit in the library and continue reading the diary which she had taken to carrying in her small backpack.

00OOOOooooOOOO00

Belle had been very nervous at the prospect of meeting Madame Goldark but right now this was not on her mind. She was bent over a mound of paperwork. Surrounding her were multiple piles of papers and ledger books. She was still working in the library but, because of his warm fire, had been able to remove her coat and the burlap blanket. She had spent the morning at one of the two large tables that were in the room looking over Master Goldark's financial books and was astonished at the extent and magnitude of his holdings and interests. He was indeed very, very rich. There was land, a good portion of the shipyards, five large ships, numerous smaller boats including some fishing boats, and any number of investments, along with his rental properties and a number of personal loans he had made that were being repaid. There were multiple ledgers, one for each venture area. She also found a ledger detailing household expenditures.

Belle was also amazed at the complete lack of organization and the apparent random filing system that the man had going. His record keeping was atrocious.

He had interrupted her perusal about mid-morning, requiring tea. In the small room where they had had their breakfast laid, she went back to the small wood burning stove with a tea kettle already set upon it. She looked around in the sideboard cabinet and deep inside, behind a shelf-door, she found some tea and a tea strainer. She measured out some tea, put it into a strainer and then slowly poured hot water into the cup. She allowed it to steep and then strained it. She knew there were other servants in the house and she suspected one of them had the responsibility of keeping that little stove stoked and keeping water in the kettle, although she had not yet seen anyone besides Master Goldark and the carriage driver. Apparently most of the staff was on Madame Goldark's schedule. _Not the best way to run a household of this size._

She hesitantly handed her first effort at tea-making off to the Master. He sipped it and brusquely informed her it was too weak and he preferred some sweetner in his tea.

"I understand, sir. Shall I make you some more?"

"No, just be sure the next cup is stronger and you add some honey," he informed her. "Are you following my accounting?" he then asked her.

"Yes sir. Your ledgers are standard double entry bookkeeping. I learned the procedure from some of the merchants in town when I was younger and applied it to my father's business."

"What idiot taught a girl double entry bookkeeping?" he asked, more to himself than to her.

"I was curious about how businessmen kept track of expenses and payments. Master Lucas who runs the tavern. . . my father was printing up an advertisement for him . . . I saw him writing down sums in a book. I asked him what he was doing and the man explained it to me. I don't think he thought I would understand, but I did. My father wasn't keeping any records, so I began to keep track of his money using the system I had learned from Master Lucas," she explained.

Goldark had listened to her in astonishment. "Incredible," he finally muttered. "Who taught you to read?"

"Oh, that was my mother. Well, she started with teaching me but died when I just six. My father taught me more so he could have help working the printing press. Once I had some reading skills, I began to read everything I could put my hands upon, so I guess I taught myself," she gave him a quick smile. She looked up from the table where he had set her down to work. "Sir," she began, "these letters," she pointed to one of the large stacks of papers she had found stashed in one of the barrister cases. "they are in no order that I can discern."

"They need to be," he told her absently.

"Would you want them alphabetized or recorded by date?"

"Well, I also need a way to be able to locate a letter on a specific subject," he told her. "I couldn't think of the best way to file them, by name, by date or by subject."

_So you kept them in no particular order whatsoever in a box. Well then. _"A cross index," she replied promptly. "We file the letters alphabetically, but we keep a listing of common subjects and note the name attached to the letter. I'd also recommend that you keep a second index for the date of the letter."

"That could work," he said slowly. "You could do that?"

"I could. It would require regular updating, but once things were caught up, it should otherwise be reasonably easy to stay on top of your information." Belle had gone back to putting some of the receipts she had found in chronological order. "Now where do you put receipts?" she asked him, ready to present him with a neat stack and wanting to know where to store them.

"In this box," he motioned towards a large wooden box that was set off in one of the bookshelves. Coming out from the top were slips of paper – _another box of random stuff – nothing in order – and, Belle suspected, many of these probably not recorded._

Belle sighed and ventured, "I take it not everything gets recorded?"

"Just as I remember to do so," he admitted. He waved her off seeming slightly exasperated, "That's why I needed a clerk."

Belle rubbed her forehead. This was going to be a monumental task, given the size of his holdings, the number of his holdings, all of his letters, his many receipts, his several ledgers, _learning to make tea the way he wanted it._

The lunch break afforded another mediocre meal. They sat in the dining room and pulled their meal off the same sideboard that had served them breakfast. More hard stale bread, tasteless, poor quality meat that was either burnt, tough or both, no fish, no fruit, no vegetables. Belle thought that as poor as she and her father were, she usually was able to give them a bowl of warm soup, often a fish chowder or a bean soup, and good quality bread for the midday meal. She usually had some seasonal fruit on the table that she had picked out of their back yard, apples or pears most often, sometimes grapes. She knew Goldark was watching her and she was careful to school her features into an expression of acceptance. She tried again to brew his tea acceptably, but this time he complained she had let it steep too long, making it bitter and no amount of honey would cover up the tannin taste.

The Master ate his meal in silence and surreptitiously found himself watching her again as she dipped her bread into the tea. His sharp eyes took in her dress, the fabric thinned in places, carefully repaired in others, well cared for, but well past its best days, devoid of lace or ribbon or other feminine touches. He was no judge of women's fashions, but the dress seemed to be very plain and very out of fashion and, he thought, it did not fit the woman well. He was also all too aware that she wasn't wearing the corseted boned undergarments that other women, particularly his wife, usually sported under their garments. He remembered well the appealing softness of her body that had pressed into him in the carriage the previous evening. He remembered how she had clung to him, nestling herself against him. It had been pleasant.

Her dark, shining hair, which she'd had no way to comb today had been freshly twisted around her head. There were numerous tendrils that had escaped and now surrounded her face in tiny corkscrew curls. Most recently, she had placed a pen behind her ear and had apparently forgotten about it while she attended to her midday repast. There was a small ink smudge on her cheek. She certainly had a fresh, innocent appeal. He broke the silence, "You don't think much of the food, do you?"

Belle hesitated and answered him slowly, "I would think, sir,that you could do better."

He sat another moment, closely regarding her. "How about I have you look at the household expense ledger and you talk with the cook and see what changes you might recommend?"

Belle raised her eyes to meet his. "Sir, I'm not sure it would be my place. . . "

He waved her off, interrupting her. "Mrs. Goldark won't care if you take over this. She's not much on maintaining the running of the household and would likely be relieved if you would take over this job for her. We'll ask her," he said, suddenly looking over Belle's shoulder.

Belle immediately turned and, saw a beautiful woman standing behind her. She rose.

"Madame Wife, may I present my new clerk, Miss Belle French. She promises to help bring order to that pile of papers in the library," he said to the woman. "Belle, this is Cora Goldark, my wife."

"Darling," the woman first came over to Goldark, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him soundly. She then turned her attention to Belle.

Goldark continued his introduction of Belle to his wife, "Her father owes me money and she seems to have some skills with ciphering. She has agreed to come and work for me as a clerk to help defray some of her father's debts."

"As a clerk? Whoever heard of a woman clerk?" the woman said very softly.

Cora then looked the younger woman over closely, taking in her shabby clothes. She smiled. "You poor thing. My husband just snatched you away from your home, didn't he? No change of clothes, no personal possessions, just barely a chance to say goodbye to your family?" She gave her husband a disapproving look. Goldark slouched, disgruntled, in his chair and turned away from the women.

Belle, very unsure of herself, just nodded. Madame Goldark was a stunning woman, with dark red hair and pale skin. She was dressed in only a form-fitting velvet robe that barely covered her bountiful attributes. Her hair hung in lustrous ringlets around her face and down her back. She looked like she had just risen from bed. A wave of exotic perfume wafted out from her with each casual gesture. She moved with the grace of a cat and exuded an air of sensuality that Belle had never before encountered.

"Well, I shall have to get Mistress Giselle out here immediately and we will get you another dress or two. I know that Master Goldark will want you to look presentable, representing his household, whenever you go out." The lady of the house assured Belle, "I'll send Billy out today and we'll get my dressmaker right out here. Now, where did my unconscionable husband have you sleep?" she then asked.

"I put her in the basement and locked the door behind her," Goldark responded sourly to his wife's question without looking up.

Another disapproving look, "Are you trying to terrify the poor girl? Or make her ill? My dear," Cora turned back to Belle, "he's terrible sometimes." Cora gave her husband a gracious smile, and then again turned her attentions back to Belle, "If you don't mind sharing, there should be plenty of room in the attic. You can share with my girl, Ashley."

Belle glanced at Master Goldark who had sprawled out in his chair and then she gave the older woman a smile, "You are very kind, Madame. I'd very much appreciate a change of quarters."

"I'd already told her that I was going to have her moved," Goldark said sullenly from the end of the table.

"I'm sure you did, darling," his wife reassured him. She fixed herself a plate of food and sat down, "We are very informal here during the day, as you can see. Now, my dear, do you play the harpsichord?"

Belle shook her head, apologetically.

Madame Goldark appeared disappointed, "Do you sing?"

Again Belle shook her head.

"Can you read?"

"Yes Madame, I read very well," Belle told her.

"Excellent, you can read to us while we are doing our needlework. Do you do needlework?"

"Yes Madame, I can do fine and plain sewing."

"That's wonderful." Madame Goldark looked back at her husband. "I shall be wanting to steal her away from you, darling. Having someone around who can read and do fine embroidery will be such a diversion."

The man had sat up and narrowed his eyes, looking at his wife. "She's mine, Cora. You'll have to find your own girl to entertain you," he said firmly. "Miss French has a lot of work to do for me and, if she has any extra time, she has agreed to play chess with me."

"Of course, my dear," his wife was instantly agreeable. "But I will be borrowing her for some clothes fittings later this afternoon. I insist. She's much too pretty to be going around in such a threadbare dress."

Goldark huffed and waved her off, apparently not wanting to embroil himself in feminine vanities.

For her part, Belle had heard that she was to get something new to wear, which was very exciting. But she was also surprised to hear him mention playing chess with her. Her impression had been that he thought her very gender dictated her as being an unworthy opponent and he did not want to waste time on her.

Husband and wife chatted shortly over odds and ends before Belle excused herself to return to the library to continue trying to organize the daunting task ahead of her.

"We'll be playing chess, sir?" Belle asked him when he finally sauntered back into the library. Belle had been taught by Mister Benjamin Franklin and he had pronounced her an excellent player. She felt confident of her skills in making at least an adequate showing.

Goldark looked at her, as always unnerving her with his icy scrutiny. "Let's see what you've got." He directed her over to the chess board. "Ladies first," he allowed her to sit on the white side of the board and she made her opening move.

"I prefer not to waste time with idle pursuits," he informed her, his eyes studying her closely. "We should make a wager."

Belle was at a loss, unsettled by his suggestion, "Sir, you know well enough my resources. What is there for me to wager?"

"Besides your virtue?" he said off-handedly with a slight smile. "I would propose that should you win, I will reduce your father's debt to me by . . . let's say ten dollars."

Belle nearly gasped. Ten dollars was an enormous wager! She had nothing to put up that was worth that much.

"Sir, I do not know the quality of your play. I cannot risk having ten dollars added on to my father's debt should I lose," she told her employer as politely and humbly as she could manage.

"I wouldn't ask for that," he assured her, his voice soft and seductive. And for the first time Belle was uncomfortable being alone with the man, seeing him not just as her employer, but as a man, a handsome man with his craggy features and warm brown eyes, an almost charming man. _What was he going to ask of her?_

He spoke kindly and slowly, "I would ask that you read to me . . . from a volume of my selection . . . and this is important . . . with no commenting, no questions, no chattering for, say . . . an hour."

"Just read to you, sir?" she asked, surprised by this forfeit.

"Without any other talking," he said sternly.

"Done sir," Belle said blithely. Either way, she felt she would win.

It was about a half hour later, when Master Goldark pushed the table away. "Enough of this. I'm tired," he announced. "And we have a lot of work to do still."

"But sir, my estimation is that I shall win the game in three more moves. Do you concede?" Belle asked him.

"I don't concede, but I . . . I retire." He seemed irritated. "I will allow you to take ten dollars off your father's debt since I am too busy to finish the game."

"You are very generous sir," Belle had to smile to herself. She had no doubt that she had beaten the man, but he wasn't going to allow the game to be finished and he wasn't going to concede.

Rumach Goldark glared at his little clerk. _The saucy little wench had just beaten him at chess! Well, she was rather pretty and distracting. _

_Yes. Yes, that was what had happened. He'd been distracted and there were a few careless moves on his part, a few lucky ones on hers. It wouldn't happen again. _

"If we find time to play again . . ." he began slowly.

"Sir?"

"If we play again, I think we will need to make my forfeit five dollars off your father's debt," he finished.

"And a half-hour of reading to you?" Belle questioned.

"No, I still want the entire hour," his tone brooked no argument.

"Very well, sir," Belle acquiesced. She did her best to hide her smile. He wasn't willing to play for ten dollars against her. He'd only wager five. He couldn't, wouldn't admit she was a good player.

But he had adjusted the wager so that it would cost him less if she won.

_It was enough. _

"Your wife seems very nice," she hazarded a comment later in the afternoon.

"She's a witch."

"Sir?!" Belle stopped what she was doing. Was this another one of his jokes?

"She's a witch. She has put me under a spell, otherwise I would have done away with her long ago," Master Goldark said without any trace of humor.

00ooooooo00ooooooo00

Emma had closed up the diary and, with the others expected in at any time, she headed on up to the attic.

"Leroy, I'm heading to the attic," she called through the walkie to her techman, still waiting in the van. Emma has almost gone up without telling anyone where she was going, but ten years of investigating had taught her to be careful. _Let people know where you were. _She had wanted to check out Clarissa's impression and see the attic room, which had not been part of the Ghost Tour. Mary Margaret had no information on the area except that it was used as storage and might have been used as servant quarters in the distant past. Emma found her way up through some back stairs, going through a clean, white painted door into the attic area. She found the light switch and tried to flip on the light but nothing happened. _Damn. _She turned on her ever present flashlight.

Casting the light around, she found herself in a sparsely furnished room with two narrow beds on each side of the room, two nightstands with wash basins, another one of the large braided rugs in the center of the room and a rocking chair. There was a window between the beds that looked out to the front of the house. She would guess that this was the room where she had seen the curtain move.

This place didn't look like it was used for storage. It looked like it was used as a spare bedroom.

Where were the boxes of Christmas lights that she was expecting to see, the clear plastic boxes labeled 'dining room tablecloths?'

She wondered if she had gone to a wrong section of the attic.

"Looking for something, Emma?"

Whirling around, Emma dropped the flashlight. She was looking into the face of Rumach Goldark.

**This chapter's song is **_**The Boxer**_** by Paul Simon and sung by Simon and Garfunkle.**

**Let me again thank all my wonderful reviewers. Your comments and insights have been delightful (special thanks to all those who picked up on my shameless reference to **_**Out of the Ashes**_** and Magicell Batteries (it just fit and I couldn't resist the nod): jewel415, RoxyMoron, Tuesdays, morgananne16, cynicsquest, Grace5231973, Wondermorena, Tinuviel Undomiel, cheesyteal'c, RaFire, juju0268, Guest (OOTA reference), emospritelet, NamelessWildflower, Shadow's Echo, mockorangeflower, Erik'sTrueAngel (Guest), Sandpiper, and Ying-Fa-dono. txm**

_NEXT: The first night of the investigation_

_Belle makes some changes_


	8. Investigations

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 8**

**Investigations**

_Tell you what,  
I got in mind,  
'Cause we're runnin',  
Out of time,  
Won't you ever,  
Set me free,  
This waiting 'round's,  
Killin' me._

_She drives me crazy,_  
_Like no-one else,_  
_She drives me crazy,_  
_And I can't help myself_.

Emma heard the sounds of The Fine Young Cannibals coming through from . . . somewhere.

She opened her eyes and found herself looking up into the faces of Jefferson and Leroy.

"Emma, Emma," Leroy was gently calling her name.

"What happened?" she managed to ask, struggling to orient. She felt woozy and confused. She looked up at a high ceiling painted a pallid yellow. She didn't recognize where she was.

"We were hoping you could tell us. You must have fainted," Leroy told her.

Jefferson added, "We found you on the floor in the attic."

"What happened?" she asked again.

"You tell us what you remember," said Leroy.

Emma allowed them to raise her so that she was sitting up. She looked around and got her bearings. She had been placed on one of the little sofas in the front parlor. "I remember going up to the attic. The lights wouldn't come on and I had to use my flashlight. I could see I was in a room with a couple of beds and a rug and a rocking chair and then I heard someone behind me."

"Yeah?" said Jefferson and glanced over at Leroy who was subtly shaking his head.

"I turned and, I swear to God, it was Rumach Goldark." Emma shook herself. "Oh don't look at me like that! I know it wasn't really Mr. G. but whoever I saw looked just like the dude in the picture."

"What happened then?" Leroy asked patiently.

"I don't know. Everything went dark. The next thing is I woke up here." Emma scratched her head, "I had taken one of my insomnia pills last night with some wine . . . a lot of wine . . . and must have had some type of delayed reaction hallucination." _But what a hallucination. Emma could recall the soft brown eyes, see the sardonic smirk on the man's face, feel the energy and power radiating from the man. He seemed so real! _

_There had even been some subtle, but definite, smells. Something like tobacco and whiskey and something kinda like pine needles._

Leroy nodded, "I'm sure that's all it was, Emma. Mixing medication and alcohol - and this place, which I'm telling you, really does creep me out."

"Even when I know that I'm being manipulated by the whole pitch and tone of this place, I guess it doesn't stop me from having the I'm-being-haunted-response," agreed Emma.

_But he did seem so real._

"Emma, should we call off the investigation tonight?" Jefferson asked out of concern.

"What?! Oh no. I'll be fine. I'll just hang back with Leroy though, I don't want to have another fainting spell and have to have people come and rescue me."

"Good idea," Leroy told her. "She'll be fine with me," he told Jefferson.

Emma was now sitting in the big van, watching the monitors and keeping up with the walkie-talkies.

First up was Rory and Millie and Jefferson in the Library. They were equipped with the usual EVP meter and an infared camera. They had also set up strobe lights and a camera which was purported to attract spirits and would allow fast moving entities to be photographed. They were also using Emma's special baby, the Spirit Box. This item picked up ambient sounds from the airways and _again purportedly_ would allow a spirit to use sounds on the airways to communicate in real time.

0o0o0o0o0oOOo0o0o0o0o0

"Hello," Millie began. "Is there anyone here?"

They had turned on the Spirit Box and the soft crackling static sound reverberated in the normally quiet room.

"_chchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchc"_

"We'd like to talk with Belle French. Is she here?

They waited and in a moment . . .

The Spirit Box crackled_, "chchchchchchchchchchch__**ess**__chchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Belle, I'm Millie. These are my friends Rory and Jefferson."

"_chchchchchchc__**hello**__chchchchchchchch__**roar**__chchchchchchchch__**eee**__chchchchchchchch__**efffff**__chchchchchchchch__**son**__chchchchchchchchchch__**illeeee**__chchchchchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Are you catching this?" Leroy asked Emma. Emma nodded. Through the closed-circuit camera lines they could see and hear everything.

"Belle, are you the woman who appeared to my friend Emma?" Jefferson asked.

"_chchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchch"_

When there was no answer, Jefferson tried another question, "Belle, are you alone in this house?"

"_chchchchchchchchchch__**nooooo**__chchchchchchchchchch"_

"How many spirits are in this house?" Jefferson asked.

"_chchchchchchchch__**reee**__chchchchchchchchchchc " _

"Was that 'three,' Belle?" Millie asked for clarification.

"_chchchchchchchc__**ess**__chchchchchchch"_

"Who else is here?"

"_chchchchchchchchchchchchchc__**wife**__chchchchchchchchchchchch__**man**__chchchchchchchchchchchchchchch "_

"Is Rumach Goldark the man?" asked Jefferson.

"_chchchchchchchchchc__**loverrr**__chchchchchchchchchchchchc"_

"Your lover is here?" asked Rory, not understanding the answer.

"_chchchchchchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Why are you here?"

"_chchchchchchchchchch__**can't**__chchchchchchchchch__**go**__chchchchchchchchch__**curse**__chchchchchchchchchchchchchchchch"_

The three investigators sat quietly.

"Did she just say a curse?" asked Millie. "They can't leave, there's a curse?"

"That's what I heard," agreed Jefferson.

"What kind of curse?" asked Millie

"_chchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Belle, is there anything we can do to help you?" asked Rory.

"_chchchchchchchchchchch__**not**__chchchchchchchchchchchchch__**you**__chchchchchchchchchch__**other**__chchchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Is there someone in our group who can help you?" Rory felt like she was getting close to something.

"_chchchchchchchchchchchch__**ess**__chchchchchchchchchchchch"_

Jefferson began asking, "Is it Emma Swan?"

"_chchchchchchchchchchchchch__**may**__chchchchchchchchchchchchch__**be**__chchchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Archie Hopper?"

"_chchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Colin Hooker?"

"_chchchchchchchchchch__**true**__chchchchchchchchchchchch"_

"Clarissa Eperson?"

"_chchchchchchchchchchch__**love**__chchchchchchchchchch"_

"Let's try something else here," Jefferson said. "We're starting to get some nonsensical responses." He began another tact, "Belle, we'd like some real evidence that you are here with us. Could you do something? Move something? Make a noise?"

They sat a quiet moment and then distinctly . . .

Knock, knock.

They all heard it.

"Belle, thank you, would you do that again, so we know it was you. Two knocks, please."

.

.

.

.

Knock, knock.

"Thank you," Jefferson said. "Can you do anything else to let us know you are with us?

The three waited.

.

.

.

A door slammed.

They all jumped.

"Thank you," Jefferson said. "Belle, I don't want to scare you. I'm going to turn on this light. If you'll come close we may be able to get a picture of you."

He turned on the strobe light and the camera.

"Belle, there is nothing here to hurt you. If you come close you might be able to make the lights on this little box light up," he instructed her further.

The three sat for a while but there were no lights. There was no action on the infrared camera.

Meanwhile, Clarissa, Colin and Archie were in the Red Room.

"Batteries gone again," Colin said, disgusted. "Jefferson told me they'd already had to replace them twice." He put fresh batteries in the both the data logger and the static meter. "Cameras seem to be holding. . . . what the hell?"

The static meter had lite up. All lights flashing.

"Ma'am, excuse us, please. We apologize for intruding on you," Archie began. "We've come a long way and just wanted to talk with you."

The static meter stayed lite up.

"Is that you lighting up the box here?" he asked

The box flashed on and off, on and off, on and off.

"Do I have the privilege of addressing Mrs. Goldark?" Archie asked. "If so, will you light up four lights on the meter, just four lights, please?"

Four lights lit up.

"Thank you, ma'am." Archie paused, "We mean no disrespect, please. We'd like to ask you some questions." He paused again. "Are there other spirits in the house?" he finally asked.

Four lights lit up.

"Is there one other spirit?"

Nothing.

"Are there two other spirits?"

Four lights lit up.

"Are you being held here against your will?" he asked

Nothing.

"People say that you try to hurt people. Is that true?" he asked.

Four lights lit up.

"Are you angry with them?"

Four lights lit up.

"Did someone hurt you when you were alive?"

Four lights lit up.

"Did your husband poison you?"

Four lights lit up.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Goldark." Archie paused. "Is your husband one of the spirits that haunts this house?"

Four lights lit up.

"Is Belle French one of the spirits that haunts this house?"

Four lights lit up.

"Was Belle French engaged in an affair with your husband?"

Four lights lit up.

"Did your husband kill you so that he could marry Belle French?"

Four lights lit up.

In a whisper, Clarissa asked, "How can we find out what happened to Belle?" then suddenly she shouted, "ouch!"

The two men turned to look at her.

"Someone pulled my hair," she told them. "Owww! I just got scratched!" And Clarissa lifted up her top to show three deep gashes on her back. They were oozing blood.

"Hey, leave her alone!" Colin shouted. "She didn't do anything to you! Shit!" he had a gash appear on his cheek.

"Ms. Cora, is that you hurting my friends?" Archie asked.

Four lights lit up.

"Do you want us to leave?" he asked.

Four lights lit up.

The three heard Leroy's voice come over the walkie. "Hey, you three, get out of there. Get out of there now."

The three looked at each other and, taking the static meter, the data logger and the EVP recorder, they left the room.

Outside of the room, they leaned against the wall.

"That was intense," Clarissa said.

"What a bitch!" Colin observed. "She seemed to like you Archie but she sure went after Clarissa and me. Clarissa, dear, are you all right?" he was quite concerned about the little investigator.

"I hurt like the devil. Those gashes went deep." Clarissa allowed Colin to lift her tee-shirt and check out the gashes in the light of the hallway.

Emma had run up the stairs and connected with the three. "Clarissa, let's get you back to the van. Leroy has a first aid kit. You too, Colin. I think we've had enough for one night." She led them back downstairs and called for Jefferson, Rory and Millie to join up with them. Leroy met them in the parlor with the kit. He had turned on the lights and helped Emma tend to the gashes.

"What they said about that room was true, huh?" Clarissa asked as she sat during the bandaging.

"Maybe. There's something in the room that seems to be able to inflict real damage," Emma admitted.

The group rode back to the Inn in silence. Emma had gotten Clarissa and Colin to ride with her and Leroy. Jefferson, Millie, Rory and Archie took the other van.

Archie shared with the others in the van what had happened.

"Creepy," Jefferson observed.

"I don't understand what happened. We were getting hits on the static meter and then when we brought up Belle French everything went south."

"Well, if Belle had had an affair with her husband, maybe she's still livid about it and blames Belle for her death," speculated Millie. "Is it possible that Clarissa somehow reminded her of Belle?"

In the other van, Colin was apologizing to Clarissa. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you, Clarissa."

"There wasn't anything you could have done. And she attacked you too," Clarissa told him.

Emma caught the little interchange. Colin, who was so obviously on the make for anything in a skirt, seemed to be treating Clarissa with a level of tenderness and concern that surprised Emma. _Was there something more to this relationship?_

Emma spoke up, "I'm sorry this happened. This is a pretty rare occurrence. I've done this for more than ten years and this is the first time I've ever had it happen to one of my teams," Emma took a deep breath, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm going to be fine," Clarissa told her. "I'm actually more angry than upset. I really felt like she was a sneaky bitch. Attacking someone without cause! Coming at them without warning!"

"What are we going to do next?" Colin asked her.

"We're going to go over the information we got tonight, get together tomorrow evening and then decide," Emma told them honestly. "I'm not eager for anyone else to go back into that room unless we have a lot more information on what we're dealing with."

O0ooO0ooO0ooOoo0O

It was midnight when they pulled back into the Inn.

Leroy had come in to talk with Emma before shutting down for the night.

"Emma, I need to tell you something," Leroy began.

"Sure, whassup?" she asked him.

"Earlier this evening, when you had gone up to attic . . . "

Emma turned to give him her full attention.

"You weren't just gone for awhile and we got concerned and then went looking for you," Leroy confessed.

"Did I give you a call on the walkie?" Emma didn't remember doing any such thing.

"Not exactly," Leroy was clearly hesitant.

"Go ahead, Leroy. What happened?"

"Jefferson and I both had walkies and they went off at the same time."

"So, did I just hit the 'on' button?"

"Not exactly."

"So?"

Leroy was clearly uncomfortable with what he had to say, "We both heard a man's voice on the walkie. We thought it was each other and had to check."

"It wasn't either one of you, then. So what did you hear?"

"The voice said, 'Come to the attic. Emma has fainted.'"

Emma sat and looked at Leroy.

"Jefferson and I heard the same thing," he added.

"A man's voice, you say?"

"With a hint of an accent," Leroy clarified.

00000000o00000000

Emma sat at the dressing table in her room. She had grabbed a shower and dressed for bed. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was thinking over the events of the evening. She'd never had an injury with any of her teams and she'd had two tonight, nearly three if she included herself _although she still chalked up her fainting episode to misappropriation of drugs and alcohol and not to coping with the aftermath of coming face to face with a smirking ghost_. As for the walkie call-out, no easy explanation there – maybe she'd called out using it. How could Leroy say for sure it was a man's voice, and one with an accent no less?!

Now as for that damn red room, Emma had been warned about it and had blithely ignored the hype. She looked at her reflection. "Cora, what the hell made you so mad?" she asked herself.

There it was.

The sensation that there was someone behind her. In the room. Someone without a reflection.

She turned slowly.

_There had really been monsters when she had turned around before. Monsters that would throw her down and hurt her. Monsters that made her bleed. Monsters that made her vomit._

There was a sigh of relief. Nothing was there.

_Of course there was nothing there. Why would there be anything there?_

_Quit imagining stuff!_

Emma went and sat up in her bed. She had downed a couple of high energy drinks before the investigation, in preparation for staying awake until about three or four in the morning. She was still wide awake.

She reached for the diary and started reading again.

0000oo0000oo0000oo0000

There had been some nice changes for Belle. Thanks to Madame Goldark's talented dress maker, Belle had been able to pack away her threadworn dress. The three women had conspired to come up with a feminine version of the typical clerk's outfit and now Belle looked sharp wearing a blue skirt and white blouse. She also had a smart jacket she could top the outfit with when Master Goldark would drag her along with him on Rent Collection Day. On those days, she added a dark blue scarf around her neck and a pert little hat. But when she was confined to the house, balancing her employer's books, she didn't bother with the jacket, scarf or hat and usually topped her skirt and blouse with an apron.

Madame Goldark had also generously ordered her a heavy coat and had her measured for sturdy boots.

And finally, Madame Goldark had also taken Belle aside and with the dressmaker's assistance had procured what she called 'proper undergarments' for Belle. She told Belle that when she was out in public with Master Goldark she should be sure to wear them.

Now Belle knew that Madame Goldark was not well liked by staff, but she had been treated well by the woman and had not found it difficult to be respectful of her. Belle had profusely and genuinely thanked her for the clothing; she shared with Cora that, as the youngest of three girls, she had never had any new clothes in her entire life.

Madame Goldark had preened at Belle's gratitude. "Belle, dear, you remind me so much of my own dear daughter. She's away at school."

"You must miss her," Belle observed.

"I do. But I have to make sacrifices as a parent. I want her to have the best and going off to school will help that happen," Madame Goldark explained. "I think it will improve her chances at a profitable marriage."

_Belle couldn't stop the thought - so you didn't send her off to get her a good education; you sent her off to become a better catch on the marriage market._

Belle also was in much better quarters. She had settled into the attic room with Ashley, Madame Goldark's very pregnant parlor maid. Ashley was responsible for helping Madame Goldark dress and helping her with her hair. She also was responsible for picking up all the clothing that was often tossed on the floor.

Belle learned very quickly that Ashley was missing her young man who was away at sea, who had gone away before he knew she was pregnant. Ashley was fervently hoping that he would return and take her away from the Goldarks'. She'd also learned that Ashley didn't like Madame Goldark although she wouldn't say why.

Belle quickly sensed that Madame Goldark had aspirations for propriety and decorum. She'd attempted to model her day after those of women born into nobility and money; she'd sleep late, put on a day dress for lunch and then in the afternoon she would engage in light activity such as walking, sewing, reading, letter-writing, painting or music. It was during the afternoons, in the sewing room, where the women would do mending, sewing and finer needlework for several hours each day that Cora met with her finest aspirations. Ashley, along with several of the kitchen maids and some of the other women on the property, would sit with Madame Goldark in the sewing room. As she was able to, Belle would join them and read from different books. The other girls seemed to like Belle and admired her, many clearly in awe of her being able to work with Master Goldark, who had a rather difficult, even nasty, reputation. Afterwards, Madame Goldark would change into formal clothing for the evening meal.

Since Belle had begun working in the house, there had been a subtle shift in attitudes within the household.

Staff became increasingly impressed with _or in the case of those who were lazy and dishonest, increasingly angry and jealous_ _of _Belle. She had slowly, with Madame Goldark's blessing, taken over the management of the household. Within the household, she had begun to assign chores and settle disputes. Staff opinion rose even higher when she began to go toe to toe with Master Goldark and score a couple of major wins.

The first such occasion occurred when he had been preparing an eviction notice for a Robert Locksley and his wife. Master Locksley's wife had been ill with a difficult pregnancy and her husband had lingered around the house rather than doing his usual work as a hunter and woods' guide. The little family had gotten behind on their bills.

Belle had begged him to give Master Locksley a little latitude.

"He's a good, honest man and the only reason he's not able to pay his bills is because his wife has been so ill and he's been staying by her side. "

Initially, Master Goldark had waved her off, "There's always a reason for why people get behind."

"And some reasons are better than others. If you would only consider accepting some of the game that Master Locksley can provide, that would set the bill aright. It would also give you a bit better table to set before yourself and your staff."

"I'm not in the business of bartering. This isn't the fourteenth century. I do business in cash," he replied sternly.

"But you would actually come out ahead, because right now you take his money and then have to use that same money to buy from him. With a bartering system, you could get three fish for what it's now costing you to buy two fish, or squirrels or deer or whatever."

He scowled at Belle who was remonstrating, walking up and down on the fine oriental carpet that covered his library floor.

She turned back to him. "By the way, I've been over your household accounts. The cook is cheating you."

"But I've checked over the figures. . ." he began.

"Oh, the math is right, but he's putting down the price of butter as twice as what it actually is and recording ten pounds of flour when he has actually only gotten five pounds. You would know if you ever went shopping or if you ever checked receipts and did inventory!" Belle was monumentally irritated with the man. She huffed and shook herself. "I think I'm finished for the day sir," and she started out of the room.

He blocked her exit, looming in front of her as she attempted to go through the door. "You work for me, Miss French. Your day is over when I say it's over."

Belle glared at him. He was standing in her way and she would have to go around him to get out. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She certainly didn't want to get into a physical confrontation with the man. She settled on flouncing back to the chair that had become 'hers' and sitting with her arms folded and her back to him.

Goldark stood by the door. He didn't look at her. He didn't have to look at her to know that she was furious.

It was a long moment before he said, "You know for sure the kitchen theft is going on?"

"I've been and done an inventory when your cook was still asleep the other morning . . . which is also appalling. He should have been up baking bread. And, yes, I've been over his records and through his pantry. And yes, I'm sure. Absolutely sure."

There was another long pause.

"So it would seem that I need to fire my kitchen cook and hire someone else," Goldark said.

Belle made no reply.

"Is there. . . would there be. . . uh. . . could you . . . recommend someone who you think would be able to do the job and be honest about it?" he finally asked.

Belle brightened up and, turning, she gave him a small smile, "I do. There's a lovely widow lady who's an excellent cook, a Mrs. Potts. She would be perfect and I have no doubts about her honesty. She does come with a young son," Belle told him.

There was another long pause.

"And if. . . if I wanted to take, say venison as payment, what's an equitable balance of trade?" he was speaking softly, hesitantly.

"My father and I had worked out a system, but you would also have to talk with your client. With food stuffs, the value can vary depending on the time of year," she explained. "Someone like Master Locksley is a very honest tradesman. He will tell you what things are worth and won't try to cheat you."

"Well. . . maybe. . . you and this Mrs. Potts could work out something with Master Locksley?" He continued to look away from Belle. "This would be a trial, you understand. I'd like to see how this works before considering doing it with other clients."

Belle was smiling and her eyes were sparkling. She vaulted out her chair and threw her arms around him, giving him a hug, which clearly discomforted the man.

"You are a dear! I knew you weren't as awful as people try to make out you are. I knew there was a nice person in there!"

Goldark slowly disengaged her arms from around his neck and cleared his throat. "We'll see, Miss French. I still have grave doubts, but I'm not sure I have much to lose by trying your scheme." He walked back to his desk. "And. . . uh. . . you are finished for the day."

She curtsied and thanked him, leaving the room with a broad smile on her face.

Soon enough, with Belle in charge of the household budget, with Mrs. Potts in charge of the kitchen, with Goldark beginning to accept alternate payments in lieu of cash, the food service improved immeasurably. There was more food, better prepared, less waste and greater variety.

And there were now some other changes. Now, not just the housemaids, but the stable boys, the gardners, and the kitchen staff all were beginning to feel that their lives had improved since Belle had taken over. They had better, more comfortable places to sleep. The entire household kept regular hours and work was divided equitably. Belle was beginning to teach those who were interested how to read and do simple math.

And now, even Rent Collection Day was different. As always Master Goldark required Belle to accompany him , but now she didn't always go on rounds with him. Instead, once a month, he would drop her off first to have a time with her father, to check how he was doing, to help him with his books and collections. She had not asked Master Goldark to do this and his unexpected, unanticipated kindness touched her. Goldark would often make all of his rounds before coming back to collect Belle. Her father still seemed upset with her for her rash decision and often went on about how much he missed her help in the business; Belle had to remind him that had she not gone with Master Goldark, then he wouldn't _have _a business.

She also learned that after a couple of weeks of unrelenting complaining, her step-sisters had gotten hungry enough, had gotten enough dirty clothing and finally cold enough to begin picking up on some of the chores. It had been very difficult on them, but several young men in the village, seeing the girls, who had before been so haughty and superior-acting, now seeing them working and doing their part, well, these young men had begun to call. Her step-sisters had become hopeful that there would be an offer forthcoming from one of their callers.

When Master Goldark would swing back by to pick her up, he would hand her father his updated accounting. Belle knew she still had a long way to go to pay off her father's debts _but somehow it was becoming less a hardship._

Now on the ride home, late in the evening, Belle sat primly in her new heavy coat, her wool scarf and her fur-lined gloves. She had new knitted socks of soft wool encased in shiny new boots keeping her feet warm. She now had several additional layers of clothing beneath the coat. Additionally, she had a thick, soft quilt in the carriage for extra warmth.

She had begun to enjoy these rides home with the Master, finding him an engaging, stimulating conversationalist.

"How is your family?" he asked her _his usual question after her familial visit_.

"My step-sisters have finally accepted their lot and are beginning to do some work. It seems to have gotten them attention from several young men so there may be a marriage or two in the future," she told him.

"Why aren't you married?" he asked her abruptly..

"Sir?"

"I mean, you're attractive, hard-working, of marrying age . . . Why aren't you married to some young man?"

"You think I'm attractive?" Belle asked him _her heart warming to hear him say such a thing_.

He seemed caught off guard. "Uh. . . . I. . . you . . . uh. . . uh . . . you're . . . you're not entirely displeasing to the eyes," he stammered, obviously embarrassed. He looked away from her.

She beamed at him.

He ventured a glance back and taking a breath, he repeated his question, "Why aren't you married?"

Belle smiled at him and shrugged, "I'm odd," she admitted.

"What?!"

"I'm odd," she said again. "I read, I study, I argue," she told him.

"That you do," he concurred with a slight smile.

"Men don't seem to like that. They want a wife who's demure, and passive and accepting. They want a woman who's going to admire and approve of them even when they are acting like utter asses."

Goldark listened to his pretty, little clerk, watching her expressive face, her bright eyes and animated mannerisms. He was beginning to increasingly enjoy her company. She was like a ray of sunshine, a little shining light in a vast ocean of darkness.

"I want to marry for love," she blurted out

Goldark pulled a face.

"You don't believe in love, do you?" she asked him softly.

"I thought I was in love with my first wife. She was beautiful and we seemed to be happy." He sighed, "but then I found out that she was a lying, cheating whore who abandoned her young son and husband for a pretty face."

There was no response but when he glanced at Belle, he saw her face, sad and concerned.

"I didn't know. I'm so sorry," she told him.

He puffed out some air, "It happened a long time ago."

"But Madame Goldark, Miss Cora, you married her. . . ?"

There was a long pause. "She was . . . is . . . very beautiful. I hadn't planned on getting married again when I met her, but there was something about her." He spoke slowly, "It . . .was . . .all . . .a blur. We met . . .and the next thing I knew, we were married. She was . . . fascinating . . . alluring. And the sex was fantastic. In the bedroom, on the beach, in the bathing tub, on the dining room table . . . "he suddenly seemed to realize to whom he was talking and the inappropriateness of his words. He stopped himself. "I must apologize, Miss French, my language, my . . . uh. . . topic. . . most unsuitable for a young woman. "

"You don't love her?" Belle asked him, still speaking softly.

He closed his eyes. "I don't love her. I sometimes want her. She drives me wild . . . on occasion. But there is no feeling, no love."

Tenuously, Belle reached over and put her gloved hand on his. There was a long moment and he put his other hand on top of hers. They rode the rest of the way home in silence.

**A.N. The song is **_**She drives me Crazy**_** written by Roland Gift and David Steele and performed by the Fine Young Cannibals**

**Thanks to all my awesome reviewers: jewel415, Wondermorena, RaFire, morgananne16, juju0268, cynicsquest, Grace5231973, cheesyteal'c, emospritelet, Ladyof13Sorrows, NamelessWildflower, RoxyMoron, DruidKitty (who managed to review post oral surgery), Aletta Feather, Spinning Folly, and Erik'sTrueAngel**

**Anne Andrews (Guest): Anne, I almost always post a new chapter on Thursday morning, Eastern Standard (US) time, so look for updates then. **

**mockorangeflower (who asked a great question – Just what Goldark might have had Belle read should she lose a chess match? - augh, I have had to think about it and do some research.) **

_NEXT: Belle begins to have some feelings for her employer._


	9. Innocence Tempted

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 9**

**Innocence Tempted**

**AN: sorry for the delay but the FanFic browser kept going down (and I had a ride to Asheville and promise of lunch at Razaz's so I had to make a choice of sticking around waiting for the browser to come back on line or heading north - I hit the road -it was a ride to Asheville already). txm**

There was the sound of glass shattering and screaming.

_Step up 'cause you're the next one in line for the kill  
You don't believe it but I'm betting that you will  
Step down, I'll let you live a little bit with the pain that I bring  
You know it's only the beginning_

Emma's morning phone alarm had gone off, jarring her awake.

She had no memory of falling asleep and was appalled with herself at dozing off cradling the valuable old diary. She got up and washed up, then re-dressed, ready to go out and get breakfast and begin the day.

Emma thought over what she had read in the diary last night. It seemed like Belle was quickly putting the household aright, bringing order and organization. She felt that there was a growing sense of intimacy between sweet, innocent Belle and her cantankerous, arrogant employer. The man had not made any moves on the girl, but Emma didn't trust his motives. He was telling her that his marriage was loveless and was allowing her to comfort him. For someone of Emma's suspicious nature, it looked like a clever play for the girl, getting her to feel sorry for him, allowing her to comfort him. Yeah right, the old "My wife doesn't understand me" gambit. Emma was still thinking that it was a mere matter of time before he was putting his hands down her knickers.

She walked down to the diner, the brisk air helping her clear her head. She sat down and soon enough with Ruby _she had finally learned the name of the slutty waitress_ she had ordered herself eggs, bacon, home fries and toast with coffee. No grits, this was Maine.

Debating the wisdom of reading the diary while reading, Emma caved in to its modest, sweet call.

Emma read through the next several weeks of the diary. Belle detailed more and more about her relationship with her employer. There was a dark intensity that had molded itself around them. The man was clearly dangerous and could be quite threatening, but Belle didn't seem to be easily threatened and her style of speaking clearly and quietly seemed to be mellowing the man. He wasn't exactly becoming nice or even polite, but he was becoming . . . almost civil.

Emma cracked up reading about some of Belle's kindly, warming gestures. Often she did simple and homey things. One morning, Belle had been up early and had done some cuttings in the flower and herb gardens. She put vases of flowers mixed with herbs in the informal dining area they used for breakfast and lunch and then other vases in the library, one on her table and then, hesitantly not sure how it would be received, she put a small vase with a few sprigs of lavender, silver king and melissa, on_ his_ desk. He had huffed and rolled his eyes when he'd seen the flowers but, Belle noticed, he hadn't ordered them removed. Heartened by his passive acceptance, she continued putting fresh flowers on his desk. He never commented on the flowers but from time to time she would catch him giving them a little sniff. And from time to time, he would allow his fingers to caress the little flower vase.

Belatedly she realized that she had gotten a gesture of appreciation from the man. She had not noticed it when it had happened. It had been so brief and quick she realized why she had almost missed it. It had been on that first morning that Mrs. Potts had prepared breakfast and Rumach Goldark had eaten well-cooked, well-seasoned oatmeal with a side of properly fried bacon and a fluffy light biscuit. He gave Belle a very modest compliment, noting that the food was, "Not bad."

It was those first, humble beginnings that seemed to sprout other kind gestures. He needed a letter about ordering new sails from somebody or another and Belle, checking her cross index, had immediately been able to put her hands on the letter. He hadn't said anything at first, taking the letter silently from her hands and then dictating a response. Later he had given her the letter back and muttered, "Nice job."

Oh, but it seemed to be their chess games that had the greatest, most dramatic impact on Goldark's attitude toward her. After the first game when he had bailed _as it was evident he was losing_, he was much more careful when he played her. He had vastly raised his estimation of Belle's skills. He won the second game they played.

"It's time to pay your forfeit," and he handed her two short books of poems that had recently come in.

She had looked at them and commented, "I'm familiar with this writer, but I know him as an engraver, an artist, not a writer."

"These were recommended to me by Thomas Paine," Goldark told her.

"I know Mr. Paine!" Belle told him. "We met when I was very young and we have corresponded. You have some of his material that, I believe, has been declared seditious in England. I was not able to get a copy of much of his work when I lived with my father but found it. . . " she looked at Goldark. He was watching her with his eyes half-closed with a faint smile on his face.

"I believe I have earned an hour of your time with you just reading and not chattering on," he reminded her gently. _Honest with himself, he admitted that he enjoyed hearing her lilting voice, but he was not used to females who talked incessantly, often asking questions, always offering opinions, never hesitating to disagree, even if she managed to do it respectfully. He just wanted to hear her, to bath in the sound of her voice, to let it wash over him without having to make any response. He just wanted a soothing experience._

Belle had nodded in obedience. He signaled for her to begin reading while he struggled to compose a letter to his son, off in school in England.

Belle began the first book of poem, _Songs of Innocence_. She had to continually remind herself not to make remarks on the unusual poems. Then she began the second book, _Songs of Experience_.

She read steadily, the strong feelings of the poems coming through her delicate voice. It was after she had read several of the poems, stopped to get a sip of tea, _which she still hadn't mastered to his satisfaction _when she began a new poem.

"_Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night." _

She stopped, contemplating the words.

She read on through several more lines of the poem.

"_Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?" _

She paused again, read on and finished the poem

"_What immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?"_

She sat quietly with the book open on her lap. She didn't continue reading.

Goldark watched her. He had stopped writing his letter to listen to the compelling poem. Belle was obviously struggling with herself, wanting to abide by their agreement but very much wanting to comment on the poem. He relented _it had almost been an hour anyway._

"That was an interesting poem," he began.

"It was remarkable," she said grateful for his opening comment.

"Remarkable, indeed." He glanced at his clock. "I believe your hour is up. That was excellent, by the way."

She stood, still holding onto the book. She was a bit reluctant to let it go. "I had not read anything that Mister Blake had written before," she shared. "I'm impressed."

"Thomas had thought these poems were interesting and sent me the books, knowing I like," Goldark hesitated and looking directly into her eyes, continued, "odd things." He watched as Belle put in a scrap of paper to bookmark the Tiger poem. Her hands were trembling. _Had he intentionally used the same word that she had used to describe herself to describe the things that he liked_? She then put the books on the shelf in his library than included works of fiction, including other books of poetry.

It was on their third game of chess that he conceded, allowing that she had indeed won. Belle could tell that it rankled him and concerned him. _Beaten by a woman._ Who would have imagined?

"You know you could make a living playing chess," he said off-handedly. He was sitting back in his chair looking her over. _He knew he was an excellent player and reluctantly realized, by extension, that so was Belle._

Belle laughed. "I could see myself loitering outside of a gentleman's club, offering to play chess, betting my virtue for rent money."

"I would suggest you play the first game for a kiss, lose that game and, having lulled your victim into a false sense of security, then up your ante and take them down," he told her. And they both laughed at the image and he gave her a penetrating stare, as if seeing her for the first time.

Belle's heart turned over. She had never had a man look at her as he had just looked at her. He was looking at her with _what was it? _Appreciation? Admiration? Respect?

It was an almost intimate moment between them.

And now it seemed as if there were an increasing number of such moments.

When they were working together and she brought him the ledgers for him to go over.

At first he went over every single receipt and double-checked her math. When he began to see that she was not prone to careless errors, that all of her work was exacting and thorough, he began to just glance over the materials and, soon enough, would just attend to the totals. She would stand next to him during these reviews, standing close, his sleeve sometimes touching hers. If he had a question about an entry, she would have to bend over him and examine the numbers. Their faces would come close together during these times and more than once she turned to find that he was looking at her eyes or her lips rather than at the ledger pages.

Tentatively, Belle began to open up to him, to share her distress, her frustration that so few opportunities were available for a young woman who wanted to make her own way in the world. If she were not married, she was confined to being a servant, a midwife or a prostitute.

"But what would you have women doing?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"The same things a man might do. Run a business, become an attorney or a physician. . . "

He laughed but then seemed to give her comments due consideration. "Miss French you are a forward, fresh thinker. I would suspect that you are ahead of your time."

"You, allowing me to work as your clerk, you, sir, are a man ahead of your times. Most men would have disqualified me for this post solely because of my sex, but you took a chance on me."

"I had nothing to lose," he admitted. "If you couldn't do the job, I would have bundled you up and returned you to your father's house and booted you both out. If you could do the job, then I would have an efficient clerk, something I had not been able to find in a man. I found. . . that you . . . have been well able to do the job," he told her and then he gave her one of his rare smiles.

_And Belle had just melted._

After that incident, Belle had fretted. She recognized something was happening to her and . . . she recognized that she was in an untenable situation.

The man was married. He was her employer.

And she was falling in love with him.

Oh, but she would find herself watching him perform simple acts, stirring his tea, picking off a speck of dust on his black-as-midnight suit jacket, running his fingers through his brown hair with its strands of gray, shuffling the week's rent receipts before handing them off to her. He had long, strong fingers, she had noticed. Sure and capable fingers.

There were often late afternoons when he would put on some gold-rimmed spectacles to help him read some of the fine print leaning over in the waning light while he sat hunched over his desk. On these occasions, he would often have removed his jacket and sometimes would have loosened his cravat, making him look approachable and almost kindly. If he caught her eye he would give her his little half smile.

And there was his voice. Often when dictating correspondence to her the burr in his locution would set up a reverberating timbre deep within herself. And it could be soft and almost purring when he was relaxed. It wasn't just his accent, but he had brilliant, insightful remarks to share. She could listen to him for hours.

She chastised herself, calling herself a silly schoolgirl in love with the headmaster. She wrote that she felt she was becoming a loose woman, one of easy virtue. Now, when they were working on a project together and, as would often happen, they would end up being physically close, it was those times that she would become so very aware of the warmth and feel of his body, of his breath, sometimes laced with a touch of whiskey or the mild tobacco he favored. There was the subtle scent of his aftershave with rosemary and a mere touch of ambergris; it was something that his wife, Cora, would prepare especially for him and him alone.

Belle wrote that she was well aware that her musings were most inappropriate, but nonetheless, she had begun to wonder about his relationship, especially his physical relationship, with his wife. He had talked to her about the sexual relationship he'd had with his wife when they had first met and married _an extremely inappropriate thing to do, she knew. He had apologized promptly following the disclosure. _Belle knew that the couple had separate bedrooms, but that was not unusual among the upper crust. She had often seen Cora approaching Master Goldark _she would not allow herself to think of him as Rumach. _Cora would dress in beautiful, seductive clothing and would often kiss the Master on the mouth. To Belle's innocent eyes, he did not appear to be kissing her back _and part of her so didn't want him to be kissing her back_.

Belle didn't think that he ever spent the night in his wife's bedroom.

Or spent any time in his wife's bedroom.

She would know if he'd stayed in Cora's bedroom. Belle's bed was directly over Goldark's bedroom and at night in the quiet of her attic corner, she could hear his distinctive step, click, step, click as he would go into his bedroom. She became quite familiar with his pattern of movements as he prepared himself for bed. fantasy

_She would fantasize about him removing his jacket and vest, unbuttoning his shirt and opening it up to reveal some of the skin on his chest. At some point, in her fantasy, he would sit and remove his boots. Next . . . next he would unbutton his pants and pull them over what she imagined were sinewy legs, hard muscled. What was wrong with his leg? She wasn't sure, but she had seen him rubbing his knee and assumed that was the likely culprit accounting for his limp. He would end up, in her fantasy, clad only in a brief pair of underpants and an undershirt. She could go no further with her musings in her inexperience. _

Belle knew well enough how long it would take him to settle in, how long before she would no longer hear him moving about in his room, how long before he would lie down on his large bed, slip between his sheets, alone.

As far as his relationship with other women went, although his reputation was darkened in town, here on the estate, the many females on his staff assured Belle that he had never accosted any of them. He had never made lewd or suggestive remarks. He had never even seemed to notice them.

Belle realized to her great dismay that she had begun to entertain an increasing fascination for the man. Soon enough she had begun experiencing fevered nighttime dreams and visions of him as . . . _dare she admit it, even to herself? . . ._ as her lover. Belle who had led a sheltered life of innocence, wrote about dreaming that his hands were on her, not just holding her up like when she had fallen in the carriage, but well and truly holding her. _That first carriage trip when she had fallen into him bloomed into her dreams and took fire. _She wondered what his mouth pressing against hers would feel like. She would imagine his weight pressing her into her bed, the force of his lips on hers teasing her mouth open, the heated demands he would make of her body. She would wake up, throbbing with unrelieved desires. She didn't understand what was happening to her.

She began to feel guilty. Adding to her guilt, was Madame Goldark. Despite her unpleasant reputation, the woman had only been kind to her, purchasing new clothing for her, praising her for her talents, thanking her for putting up with her difficult husband. And of course Master Goldark had never done anything to encourage her fantasies. Belle fervently hoped that she would never lose her self-control around the man. _She'd had one ridiculous fantasy in which she threw herself into the man's arms and begged him to kiss her and hold her and do whatever he wanted with her. _That was one silly dream that she had to firmly squash.

At this same time, she began to take on more and more direction of the household, taking on the duties of a wife, more of the responsibilities and chores, without the benefits and pleasures of having a husband. More and more of the household staff would approach Belle to help with problems that would have otherwise gone to the mistress of the house _as if Belle was the mistress of the house_. Before Belle, the staff had lived in fear that Madame Goldark might summarily dismiss them without references for a minor infraction or even for something inconsequential. If anyone wanted a day off, if there was disagreement about the division of job responsibilities, if there was a dispute over quarters, any argument, any problem, could now be brought to Belle who would listen and offer a fair and just resolution. With Belle to intervene, the tone of the household changed. People were smiling, jobs were getting done without problems. Things were running smoothly.

Except in Belle's heart.

**"Glass Shatters" was written by Michael Wengren, Dan Donegan, James Johnston, David Michael Draiman and Steve Kmak (aka Disturbed) (aka as the Cold Stone Steve Austin Theme)**

**Thanks to all those great reviewers who found time during this very busy time of the year to send me a kind comment: RoxyMoron, jewel415, mockorangeflower, Grace5231973, cheesyteal'c, Aletta-Feather, RaFire, Ladyof13Sorrows, emospritelet, juju0268, RKandee13, Wondermorena, NamelessWildflower, True Courage, Ying-Fa-dono, Erik'sTrueAngel, orthankg1,Shadow's Echo, Spinning Folly and Anne Andrews (Guest)**

_NEXT: More Rumbelle (this was originally one chapter but ran too long). Belle and Goldark have an argument and much is revealed._

_And Emma reconnects with an old aquantance_


	10. Rational Arguments

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 10**

**Rational Arguments**

Emma was jarred from her reverie reading the diary by someone putting money in the little jukebox in the corner of the diner. She recognized it as an old Patsy Cline standard about unrequited love.

_Sweet dreams of you  
Every night I go through.  
Why can't I forget you and start my life anew  
Instead of having sweet dreams about you?_

_You don't love me. It's plain.  
I should know, I'll never wear your ring.  
I should hate you the whole night through  
Instead of having sweet dreams about you._

_Sweet dreams of you.  
Things I know can't come true.  
Why can't I forget the past, start loving someone new  
Instead of having sweet dreams about you?_

At that moment her food arrived.

She wanted to put the diary away while she ate but, well, it had just gotten good. She kept reading while she ate her breakfast.

O0oo0O0oo0O0oo0O

_Master Goldark was excessively pleased with the bargain he had made. Miss French was a most efficient employee and a pleasant companion. He found that he was enjoying her company more and more. So sweet. So pleasant _

_Except when she was arguing with him. _

_She questioned everything¸ usually just wanting to know about things, like the shipping business. But sometimes she would question his methods: Was there not a better way? An easier way? She wanted explanations. She challenged him, never accepting "this is the way that we've always done it." She kept him on his toes and, well, he didn't always like it. She wasn't the sort of female he was used to. _

_She wasn't like anyone he was used to._

Belle wrote in her diary that Master Goldark and Madame Goldark never disagreed about anything, at least not publically. No one on staff ever remembered them having any dispute about anything. Madame Goldark was always quite agreeable and amiable to anything Master Goldark said or did.

_However did she manage that?_

It was a different matter between herself and Master Goldark. She wanted to know about everything and questioned everything in her thirst for knowledge. Sometimes things didn't make sense and she would question him. This would lead to animated explanations, heated discussions and fiery arguments.

And the arguments were frequent, if it could technically be called an argument with only one person doing the arguing. Goldark would often shout at her and stomp around and sulk and glare, but Belle did her best to remain oblivious, to hold to the high road of any discussion. He would bluster and threaten, but she would remain calm and focused. He would rage and try to bully her, but she would stand up to the man.

_She just wanted answers._

_She just wanted to know . . ._

_Everything._

During this one particular morning it sounded as if the roof was going to come off the place. The household staff had no idea what the current altercation was about but all fled the scene not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!"

There was a soft murmur.

"It's not going to happen! It will never happen! And no, I don't have to give you a list of reasons why it's ridiculous! It's obvious that it's ridiculous!"

"You are going to need to calm yourself," Belle remarked without raising her voice. "You're going to have an aneurism."

Goldark had gotten up and slammed the library door shut so the entire household wouldn't have to hear this latest 'discussion.' Miss French was going to cause him to stroke.

"Been reading the medical books again, haven't you, dearie?" his tone was hateful and condescending. "You come up with the most outrageous ideas. Women – voting?! Please dear god!" He raised his eyes to the heavens, "This is what happens when you educate a woman. She gets ideas that she is as capable, as smart . . . as a man."

The two had begun a quiet discussion earlier in the day as Belle updated the previous day's receipts. There had been a little correspondence for her to deal with and she had gone ahead and updated the cross-reference file.

With no business on their hands, they had, instead, begun discussing politics and an upcoming election in town. He was surprised to find out that Belle had a viewpoint about the candidates and was quite familiar with the issues. Belle had gone on to share the views from some of the other women she corresponded with, a Judith Murray from Massachusetts, and another woman she had connected with, being a mutual acquaintance of Thomas Paine. The woman was Mary Wollstonecraft, a freethinker who lived in England. Belle had communicated with both of these women over their frustration regarding their inability to vote, among other things such as their inability to hold property or to have any say in the management of their own children. Rumach Goldark had greeted her statement first with laughter and then with outrage.

_This had just been too, too much._

"Why is this so hard for you to imagine?" Belle asked him. _This was an issue close to her heart._

"Because women don't have the ability to make such important decisions! They're too emotional and don't make decisions rationally. They're like children and need to be taken care of," he explained patiently.

Belle looked hard at her employer. "It's not about taking care of women, it's about controlling women!" For the first time she realized that she was in danger of losing her temper in one of their 'discussions.'

She took a deep breath in the effort to calm herself, "Can you present any truly rational reasons why women should not vote? Would you say that it is because women don't _want_ to vote? Or that men have already shown how well they see to the interests and safety of women so women don't _need_ to vote?" Belle's voice was a tad sarcastic. She continued, "Or that it's outside the _legitimate sphere_ of a woman's influence, whatever that means? Would you ask why change a system that is already working? Or, and this one is my favorite, do you think that if women become involved in politics they will stop marrying and having children? Do you really, really believe that we are such emotional creatures that we are incapable of making sound, rational decisions?"

Belle had worked herself up. She was now the one walking the floor of the Library. No longer her usual calm, quiet self. She was ranting. She was pacing. She was gesticulating.

"Do you actually think that the act of voting would create so much pressure on a woman's brain and delicate nervous system that after voting, a woman would be fainting and weeping and have to take to her bed?" She turned on him, "I think that men don't want women to have the vote not because they think that women _cannot_ handle voting, but they are afraid that women _can _handle voting."

Belle took several steps towards Goldark. She was waving her hands wildly, "And if women are like children it is only because men have denied them the right to education. What we don't know is only that which we have not been taught. We're capable of learning_ anything_ a man can learn. You sir, you allow women to run your household. I'm a woman and I keep your business organized and your bank books balanced. Tell me one thing that you think I would need a man to help me do."

Goldark considered only a moment, "Marriage. You're never going to get married on your own. You're going to end up an old maid and that will be such a waste. Your father is going to have to select someone for you. I'll be happy to recommend several men who might have the patience and forbearance to handle you. You need to be warming some man's bed." His tone betrayed his extreme irritation. _How dare she raise her voice to him, in his own house, in his library, his sanctuary!_

He turned away from Belle as he spoke and as he was not looking at her, he missed the dangerous look that crossed her face. "So you think I need to be 'handled'? That I need to 'be warming' some man's bed?" Her voice had definitely begun to rise. _She had lost control._

"What you need is to have your impertinent backside paddled," he pronounced, angrily, returning his attention to his work. "But I'm not in the mood, nor do I have time to enlighten you as to your place."

"My place?! Because I dare to disagree with you? Because I dare to suggest that perhaps the biggest and strongest aren't always the best ones to make decisions? Because I dare to ask you to consider that a woman might be as smart, even smarter than a man?"

"Well, look at yourself now. You're absolutely hysterical," he was dismissing her.

"Oh, when you were angry, you were righteously indignant, but now that I'm angry, I'm a hysteric! You sir, are an arrogant, pompous, insufferable ass!"

It was now his turn to stand and he turned on her, "You do forget your place, Miss French! I am not only your employer but your well-being was given over to my care! It is part of my responsibilities to guide and direct you. I am well within my rights to discipline you!" He glared at his defiant little clerk; he'd seen kinder eyes above a set of dueling pistols. "Perhaps I am wrong not to take action," he said as much to himself as he said to her. He advanced on her. "Perhaps I am not too busy or indifferent to paddle your backside." _Maybe he had allowed her too much freedom, too much familiarity._

Hearing his words, Belle considered turning and running from the room, but opted instead to hold her ground against the furious, advancing man. She did not know that few, if any, had ever made such a choice. "So when your words are insufficient, you resort to physical force. I believe my proposition that men feel they have to control women is confirmed." She was terrified _at what he might do, what he could do with impunity_ but she held her ground.

He had backed her up against the table. He had grabbed her wrists. He loomed over her. Their eyes were locked together. There was a long moment.

A long, long moment.

He was looking deep into her eyes. Belle was rigid, ready to fight, to defend herself. She was not about to meekly submit to his 'discipline.'

Her eyes were bright and had darkened to a cobalt blue.

His eyes had almost gone completely black.

Her cheeks were flushed.

His blood was up.

Her breathing was heavy and she panted through parted lips.

Moist, parted lips.

She was astonished when he leaned in and gently, so tenderly, so softly touched his lips to hers and then pulled back. When she didn't protest, he again leaned in, releasing her wrists and allowing his hand to trace up her arm to her shoulder. He brought his other hand up to her chin and held her face in place while he continued to kindly, lovingly kiss her. Belle's eyes closed and she felt herself softening against the man. This was the man from her dreams, the one who came to her at night and kissed her and held her.

And this reality was so much better than her dreams.

He felt warm and comforting and strong. She didn't even try to resist him.

His kiss had abruptly deepened and now it wasn't the soft, gentle pressing of lips against lips. Now he was insistently, persistently, nudging her lips open, urging her to allow him possession of her mouth. She was now clinging to him.

When he briefly pulled back from her, she managed to murmur, "I didn't think you liked me."

"I don't," he mumbled back to her. "You're irritating and demanding."

And then he was kissing her again and now his lips were hungry, consuming, voracious, devouring her. There was no kindness, no gentleness here. This was a man bent on seducing and having his way with a maid. Belle had her hands fisted in his shirt and she was holding on him. She was helpless, overwhelmed, swept away. _Whatever he wanted, she wanted it too. _He suddenly lifted her and she was sitting on the library table. He used his body and had stepped in between her legs so that now she was able to wrap herself around him, her legs lifting and going around his waist, her arms clinging to his shoulders.

Belle had been aroused, angry, but now her arousal had rapidly gone in another direction. A direction with which she had little familiarity . . . passion? She wasn't sure, so inexperienced was she, but she thought she might be kissing him back. As she allowed him to plunder her mouth she realized that, yes, yes, yes, she was definitely kissing him back. She heard someone whimper and realized it was herself.

"Rum," she whispered.

"Belle," he was whispering back to her. His lips had left hers and were traveling down her neck. He was whispering something to her that she didn't understand. She relaxed, sinking into his arms, allowing his lips and his hands to move around her body, caressing her, stroking and embracing her. He was pressing her to him, molding her soft curves into his own body. Even in her innocence she was well aware of his body's response to hers.

They were both breathing heavily when he stopped. He simply held her a moment. Then he pushed away from her, "Belle, I'm sorry. I can't do this. We shouldn't do this." He didn't let her go. His fingers had entwined with hers and he traced down her face with his other hand. "Oh God! You are so beautiful. So desirable." He kissed her again, so softly, so gently, again.

"Rum, what are we going to do?" she managed to ask him.

"I don't know. I don't know."

Goldark had reluctantly pulled himself away from Belle, leaving her sitting on the table, and went over to sit at his desk. He talked to the wall, unable to bring himself to look at her. "Belle, I'm sorry. I've been taught that women aren't as smart or as strong as men. That they are children to be protected. But you are making me rethink everything I've been taught."

He still wasn't looking at her, "And today, when we were having a discussion and I couldn't think of rational arguments against your points, I resorted to physical aggression and irrational behavior, like I could somehow force my views on you – the very thing you said men have been doing to women forever."

Still turned away from her, he spoke very softly, "And I said it was important that you get married because the truth is, I'm afraid that I will take advantage of your innocence if you continue in my employ but Belle, the bigger truth is I can't bear the thought of you leaving me. I can't bear the thought of you in the arms of another man. You must think I'm a monster."

"I think I'm in love with you," Belle told him.

ooooOOOO0000OOOOoooo

Emma closed the journal at this point as she had finished up her breakfast and had the check to take care of.

_So they had finally kissed. In a moment of anger that had quickly turned to passion. And both had known it was wrong. And both had wanted it to continue. She wasn't sure if Goldark was being legitimately contrite or if he was manipulating Miss Belle, who for all her smartness was very naïve about men. Belle had certainly thought he was sorry for what he had done._

Emma knew she was a cynic. She didn't trust men_ or women for that matter. _She figured that it would be a matter of time before he nailed her, she was sure. And then there'd be hell to pay.

She was reviewing her email on her phone when a dark shadow came over her. Someone had come by, stood and then sat down. She looked up, her green eyes meeting brown eyes.

"If you want me to go, I will. I would understand it if you never wanted to see me or speak to me again."

It was Neal.

"What could you possibly have to say to me?" she asked him.

"I have an explanation." He was obviously nervous and hesitant. "I know you may not want to hear it and, if you don't, I will understand. But dear lord, Emma, please. I can't tell you how sorry I am. How sorry I was to have hurt you like I know I hurt you."

Emma considered. She had dreamt of this moment, when Neal would appear and have some explanation that would explain everything, that would make it all better.

And here he was.

_Would it be any worse if she heard him out?_

When Emma didn't order him out of the diner, Neal sat down across from her and hesitantly began. "I used to be a police officer. I was working deep undercover, drug cartel stuff. I couldn't tell you. I got called away. I wasn't allowed to communicate with you, send you money, let you know. . . let you know that I loved you. . . that I've always loved you."

Emma's eyes narrowed. "Undercover drug cop?! Honestly! That crock of shit is the best you can come up with? That sounds like something out of one of your books! You expect me to believe that cockamamie story?"

Neal shrugged. "It's so hokey, how could it be anything except the truth, Emma? What were you expecting to hear?"

"I don't know. You had gambling debts and were avoiding the mob! You had been diagnosed with an incurable illness, couldn't deal with everybody's pity and had decided to slink off to die alone! You were a total sleezebag!"

Neal sat quietly across from her. There was a pause, "You've read my books?" he asked suddenly.

"They're everywhere. Hard to miss," she tried to sound dismissive. _Who was she kidding? She had devoured them, clearly recognizing Neal as the hardboiled hero and was pretty sure his hot, savvy, strong-willed psychologist girlfriend was a very favorable rendition of herself without warts._

"Listen Emma, I can show you my official resignation and some commendations that I got for my job if that would help?"

"Not really. Those things can be printed up in a heartbeat," she told him.

Jefferson came in at that moment and saw Emma and Neal together. He went into 'protective friend' overdrive. He went over to Emma and slid in next to her putting his arm around her.

"Emma darling," he kissed her on the cheek. "Who's your friend?"

Emma had to smile at Jefferson and his attempt to persuade Neal that she was in a relationship with him.

"Thanks Jefferson, I'm all right. This is Neal. He used to be a friend," Emma introduced Neal to Jefferson.

"Hello Neal, Emma is a very good friend of mine. She's here with some of her other friends," Jefferson said to him with a thinly veiled warning.

"I'm glad she has friends," Neal said, not backing down.

Emma was shaking her head, "Neal, I don't know about seeing you anymore. When you disappeared from my life it was kinda tough. I don't know that I want to open that can of worms again.'

Neal nodded. "Would you consider . . . maybe . . .seeing me again . . . maybe one date?"

"Maybe," Emma was noncommittal.

"Ok Emma, that's as much as I can expect." Neal continued to sit across from her. "Listen Emma, my family is from this area and I come back up here when I need to recharge my batteries. Why are you here?"

"I'm working," she said evasively, not offering any details.

Neal looked at her and then looked at Jefferson. "Are you investigating the Goldark House? As in ghost hunting?"

Emma looked up at the man. "Yeah, we are. You know the place?"

Neal sat back. "Yeah, I know the place. I own it."

_Well, shit, thought Emma._

**The Patsy Cline song was written by Tim Williams.**

**Much of Belle's suffrage rant was taken from the one-woman play **_**Suffrage On Stage**_** presented by Marie Jenney Howe, a Unitarian minister, in 1920. It consolidated all the arguments against woman's suffrage which had been accruing since the late 1700's.**

**And while most of us are very familiar with Mary Wollstonecraft, Judith Murray predates her just a bit with her "On the Equality of the Sexes" in 1790, published in the **_**Massachusetts' Magazine**_** (Mary published her "A Vindication of the Rights of Women" in 1792). I figured well-read Belle would have been familiar with both of these works.**

**Humble thanks to all those reviewers who managed to drop me a line during this very busy time of year: ****morgananne16, cheesyteal'c, RoxyMoron, Wondermorena, jewel415, juju0268, Tinuviel Undomiel, DruidKitty, and Grace5231973. So very much appreciated. txm**

_NEXT: The Team reviews the Red Room EVP's_

_Cora makes a move_


	11. Discovered

**KNOCK**

**Chapter 11**

**Discovered**

_To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him  
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile  
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him  
And I do (and I do) (and I do)._

_I'll be good to him. I'll bring love to him.  
Everyone says there'll come a day when I'll walk alongside of him  
Yes, just to know him is to love, love, love him  
And I do._

_Why can't he see? How __blind__ can he be?  
Someday he'll see that he was meant for me._

Emma sat in the parlor with her entire crew. They could hear the old tune coming from Ms. Nolan's CD player that sat on top of a file cabinet in her little office.

Emma had made several difficult decisions. Neal had asked to join The Investigation and, as he was essentially her employer and had a legitimate vested interest in The House, she had reluctantly agreed . She had firmly stipulated that she was in charge of The Investigation and he would be required to follow her every instruction T_o The Letter_. He had immediately agreed to her restrictions. After additional deliberation, she had also invited Ms. Nolen into the group discussion. She felt that Ms. Nolen had a lot of prior experience with investigations and it was possible that she might have some heretofore unrevealed information that might help things proceed.

At Emma's request, Leroy went first. He was going to share some of the things he had picked up on the EVP's and the cameras. He started with the Baseline Recordings, taken from the recorders that Emma had left before the team had arrived.

He shared the one EVP _from the Library _that had come through on the baseline recordings, "Hello, Emma. Welcome." It was an extraordinarily clear EVP and everyone had agreed with what was on the recording.

Leroy shared that the baseline recorder in the basement hadn't really picked up anything. There might be sobbing sounds, but it was too unclear to make any real decisions.

And the baseline recorder in the Red Room, well, it hadn't picked up anything. Absolutely nothing.

Now for the new recordings. Beginning with the Library, Leroy shared that they hadn't picked up anything on the cameras. The only stuff that had proved interesting were the responses they had gotten on the Spirit Box, responses that everyone had already heard. When they had turned on the strobe light, everything had gone flat. . . nothing. . . not a whisper.

"All right Leroy. You know we're all wanting to hear what was going on in the Red Room," said Colin, saying aloud what everyone was thinking.

"Yeah, ok. You remember when you went in the room the static meter had lit up. We were also running the data logger and it recorded the temperature in the room dropping twenty degrees in a thirty second span."

"What's a data logger?" Neal had asked.

"It records variations in temperature every two seconds. People often report that it gets cold right before an event. The theory is that the spirit is drawing energy from the atmosphere, including heat energy, to help it manifest," explained Emma.

"So dropping twenty degrees that quickly?"

"Is interesting," was all Emma would say.

"And before you all started asking questions, yes, we caught some EVP's," Leroy shared.

Neal gave Emma a light punch, "Exactly what is an EVP?" He'd been hearing the term and was at a loss.

Emma responded, "Electronic Voice Phenomenon. The recorder will pick up on sounds that the human ear might not hear."

Leroy played the recording, "zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz**hooorrruuu?**zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

"Leroy, put that on a loop and everyone listen. Now, people write down what you heard," Emma directed and then collected the responses. She read through them, "One hundred percent, 'Who are you?'"

"Now there's nothing until Archie asked the question "Did your husband kill you so he could marry Belle French?" Then all hell started breaking loose. We got this on the infrared camera. Watch." Leroy began showing the Q&A and pointed out the three investigators. He then pointed to a place right next to Clarissa, the shortest of the three figures. "Watch this." A blue splotch in roughly the shape of a person appeared next to Clarissa.

"What the hell is that?" asked Neal.

"Cold spot," Emma answered.

Leroy continued, "The EMF meter was going bonkers at this time."

The team heard Clarissa as her hair was pulled and her back was scratched. When Colin stepped in, they saw the blue figure envelope him and they heard him curse when he was scratched.

And then Archie asked, "Is that you hurting my friends?" and the blue figure rose up above the trio.

"Wow, that's amazing," Neal was watching open-mouthed.

Leroy turned and told the group, "We caught another EVP."

They listened and when Archie asked, "Do you want us to leave?" the recorder caught _zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz__**I**__zzzzzzzzzzzz__**want**__zzzzzzzzzz__**you**__zzzzzzzzzzz__**to**__zzzzzzzzzzzzz__**diiie**__zzzzzzzzzzzz._

Leroy's voice had come over the recordings next telling the trio to get out of the room.

"Wow," said Neal again, speaking for the entire group.

Emma again had everyone write down what they had heard and again there was unanimity: _I want you to die._

"Yeah, wow is right," agreed Emma. "All right, team. What do you want to do?"

"What are our choices?" asked Clarissa.

"Well, we can always pack up and leave. We wouldn't be the first," Emma told her. She mulled over some other options, "We could ask for a blessing to see if we can't get rid of this bitch."

"Why not perform an exorcism?" asked Neal.

Emma shook her head, "You exorcise a possessed person, you bless an infested house," she explained.

Mary Margaret spoke up, "We've already had several blessings. Each one seems for help a little while but then the activity returns . . . worse than ever."

Emma nodded, "Well another option is that we can go in and confront her again, but we'd need to be armed."

"Armed?" somebody asked.

"Protected. There are different things to do to protect you from . . . " Emma hesitated, searching for the best word, "The Unseelie. The best known is the Christian cross. Someone Jewish might use the Star of David. Wiccans use a pentagram of silver. You can also make an amulet and put something 'repellant' together. There are some herbs that can be used. My 'ghost' suggested hazelnut, mistletoe¸angelica, salt and iron.'

"Your ghost?" asked Neal.

Emma ducked her head and sighed, "Yeah, I met a woman out in the Poison Garden that Ms. Nolen assures me is the ghost of Belle French. The woman didn't look like any ghost I've ever heard of. She looked as substantial as anybody here and interacted with me without any weirdness."

"As yes," Neal said. "Belle French."

"You know her?" Emma asked.

"Know _of _her. Some time ago, I came into a handful of Rumach's papers where he mentioned hiring a woman to clerk his paperwork for him. Something to do with her father's debts. I wouldn't have given the old boy the wherewithal to actually hire a woman. I always suspected he had some hanky-panky in mind and was using the clerking job as a cover."

"No, she was actually his clerk," Emma told her ex. "I've been reading her diary and it recounts what you had said first – that her father had debts and she went to work for Rumach to help pay them off. Whether they ever got to any hanky-panky I don't know yet, I've still got a ways to go with the diary."

"Get out! You have her diary!" Neal was surprised. "That's awesome. I wonder how it gee-haws with Rumach's papers."

"We'll have to share," Emma said without thinking things through.

Neal nodded. _He hadn't missed it, this was an opening, an opportunity to spend time with Emma._

Jefferson was watching this discussion. "This is just peachy, guys. But what do we do about the Red Room?"

Emma grimaced at Jefferson. "Yeah, right, I forgot what we were focused on. The last option I was sharing is that we protect ourselves and then go back in and confront the negative energy."

"So it's leave or stay?" Archie asked. "Or bless and leave or bless and stay?'

"That's the short version," Emma agreed.

The group looked at each other.

"Please stay," Ms. Nolen said. "I think whatever is going on in that room may be getting worse. I'm afraid it's going to get out of that room. I'm getting desperate." She turned to the group, " Any help, any help you can give me would be appreciated."

Millie finally asked, "How dangerous can it get?"

Emma responded slowly, "Well, if you believe other accounts of what can happen when people come into contact with this type of energy . . . or entity . . . it can get pretty damn dangerous," she said. "We've already had two of our group injured by being scratched. Whether it could get worse, I have no way of knowing, but I would think we would want to be prepared that it might."

She paused before continuing, "There is also the theory that sometimes negative energies can attach themselves to a person and follow that person, perhaps possess that person."

"Do you believe in such things, Dr. Swan?" asked Colin.

Emma paused again, "I'm always skeptical. I think some people are susceptible to negative vibes and difficult experiences. If they are, they might get traumatized enough to develop some problems."

"So what do you think the negative energy, or whatever you want to call it, in that room is?" asked Neal.

"Hell if I know. But it is one of the meanest things I've ever encountered," Emma said honestly.

"I'm not in for this," said Archie. "I'm a semi-believer and I'm afraid of getting in too deep."

"I'm not in for this either," admitted Millie. "Some things are better left alone."

"Well, Jefferson?" Emma asked.

"We've been together awhile, Emma. You know I will support you, no matter," he paused. "But. . ."

"Go ahead, Jefferson."

"I think this is bigger than anything else we've ever encountered. This thing is nasty. I'm happy to hang on and help Leroy, but I don't want to go into that room."

Emma nodded. She turned to another team member, "Rory, how about you?"

Rory considered, "I'd like to go in and check it out. I don't know how long I'll be able to stay though."

"You want to go in?" Emma asked, surprised that the sensitive girl would want to subject herself to what might be a very unpleasant experience. "But that hadn't worked out well before. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I want to try it again," Rory assured her. "Maybe with some protection and if I can have Jefferson or Colin outside the door." She smiled at the two men.

"Let me think about this, Rory," Emma told her. "I don't want to risk your safety."

"I'd like to be a part of this," Neal spoke up. "If you have a group to go back into that room, Emma, I'm in. It's my house and I'd like to get rid of anybody who's taken up residence but who's not paying rent."

Emma had to smile at that. _That was the kind of attitude she needed._

Clarissa spoke up. "I come from a family of very brave women," she began slowly. "They've supported different causes and I can tell you my female ancestors have been arrested on every single continent fighting, protesting, speaking out for their causes."

"Including Antarctica?" Neal couldn't help but ask.

Clarissa gave him her shy smile. "Technically it was just off the coast. Greenpeace, my grandmother, crazy woman," she explained to Neal. She then continued, "I have never been very brave." She paused and looked away from the group. "I've always been afraid and it's taken me some effort to move away from home, even. I just wanted to spend my life with books, reading about other people's adventures."

She looked back at the group with shining eyes, "But now I have a chance to do something, something out of the ordinary, to face danger, to be brave. " She licked her lips. "I'm in. I want to go after this woman or devil or whatever is in that room. No one, _nothing_, has a right to mistreat and harm other people." She looked at Emma, "I'm in."

"Me, too," Colin spoke up instantly.

"All right, then," Emma said. She had a core investigational group. "But, before we go back into that room, I'd like to check out the attic," Emma told the group. "I know Ms. Nolen hasn't had any reports from up in that room, but Clarissa felt something and _something_ happened to me in that room. Let's rest up and regroup tomorrow night. Those of you who don't want to go into the Red Room will help Leroy in the van."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Belle and Rumach Goldark had mutually decided to keep their distance from each other. They had each decided, without any discussion, that they would maintain a strictly professional relationship. They took to dressing formally and addressed each other as "Master Goldark" and "Miss French." Belle kept her eyes down and did everything she could to keep her mind on the job, only the job. She quit asking him questions, avoided any controversial topics and tried to keep her responses to "Yes sir" or "No sir" and the occasional "I'll find out, sir."

But there were still gestures. Belle continued with collecting flowers for the downstairs, but now, now, she would place a single red rose in the arrangement that she would set on his desk. It would be the only arrangement with a red rose.

Oh and there was another time, as they were about to go out to collect rent, Belle realized that she had forgotten her gloves. Not that she needed them in the summer months, but gloves were something without which a proper lady would not leave the house. She returned to the Library and saw them on the table at her place. Before she could retrieve them, she saw Goldark pick them up. Slowly, he brought them to his face, smelling them and then, looking up, looking her directly in the eye, he brought the gloves to his lips.

Belle felt her face heat up. _She knew intimately how those lips felt. _Her palms tingled as if he were pressing his lips to them. Slowly, he lowered the gloves away from his face and held out the gloves to her. Wordlessly, she took them.

They tried to talk about parting company.

Goldark spoke up late one morning with Belle, "I'm wondering if you should return to your father's house." _This was not easy for him to say. He didn't want her to go away._

"Are you dissatisfied with my work?" she asked him, trying not to sound upset. _Part of her had been expecting this, expecting him to try to handle their relationship by denying it existed, by sending her away._

_Going away. It would be the smart thing, the right thing to do._

"Of course not. I am concerned about . . . about . . ." he flailed around for words, "what will happen to you if you continue working here. There's no future for you here. I can give you nothing."

"So," Belle looked down at the ledger she had been double-checking _as if these numbers contained the secrets of the heavens_, "you would see me married to some other man?"

Goldark had closed his eyes and was rubbing his head in his hands, "I don't want that! You know that! But . . . Belle . . . people are beginning to talk, they have been talking about us . . . that I'm . . . I'm taking liberties with. . . taking advantage of you, enjoying your favors. . . having you in my bed," he finished . "If you stay here . . . with me . . . I'm afraid. . . . I'm afraid that everything they're saying. . . about us . . . that it will become true."

Belle sat quietly, "Maybe I want it to become true," she said softly. She stood, "What you and I could have together. . . "

"Society, the church, the law forbids us being together," he told her shortly. "The last thing I want to do is hurt you, to dishonor you. We cannot be together. We shouldn't be spending time alone together."

She dropped her head. She could hear the anguish in his voice. "I know," she had to agree with him. He was trying to do the right thing. _But why didn't the right_ _thing _feel_ right_?

They heard someone clear their throat and both turned. It was Madame Goldark dressed in an exquisite golden silk and velvet embroidered robe. It clung along her curves. How long she had been standing at the doorway of the library, they couldn't know.

She smiled at them, "I thought I would join . . . _my husband_," she emphasized the words looking at Belle, "for lunch."

"I have work to finish up," Belle said. "I'll get something to eat when I've finished here, sir." She turned away and sat back in her chair.

Goldark considered for a moment, looking his wife over. "Of course, my dear," he said, agreeably. _Damn._

"You two seem cozy," Madame Goldark remarked as they walked to the dining area.

"We're tired," Rumach responded to his wife. "Miss French has been working with the household accounts and the rent receipts have come in which is always a lot of work."

"I'm sure," Madame Goldark shared. "She spends a lot of time doing work for you." She smiled at him, "Rumach, darling, I want you to look at a problem I'm having with my large mirror. Will you be able to come up to my room later, this evening?"

"Of course, my sweet," he responded. He sat quietly with her in the informal dining room, picking over his food.

"Are you feeling all right, darling?" she asked him.

He hesitated, "Just tired," he answered.

"I'd like to have dinner with you tonight, my darling," Cora said to him. "Something special. . . in my room."

"Of course," he said absently.

Rumach sat quietly at the dining room table after Cora had left. _Damn! Damn! Damn!_

For the rest of the afternoon, he and Belle did not speak. Finally, he excused himself early, sharing he would be dining with his wife in her room this evening. Belle nodded. She finished her sums and, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, went over to the kitchen, not because she was hungry, but feeling she should eat something to keep her strength up.

The weather was beautiful, a moderate temperature, a light breeze coming in from the ocean. Any other day, Belle would have relished being outside. But today, this evening, she felt numb, the beauty of a Maine summer completely lost to her.

She took a slice of bread and some of the soup that Mrs. Potts always had on the stove. She ate it there in a kitchen corner and then started back to her small attic bedroom. She couldn't stop herself when she was going up the stairs to her room. She walked by Madame Goldark's door. She could hear Madame Goldark.

"You know I've told you that I don't care if you amuse yourself with the entire female staff. You can dally with them in shifts, for all I care, but I won't tolerate you having a mistress, especially not under the same roof you've put over my head!"

Belle could hear a low, indistinguishable response.

"Well, you two looked very, very close. Some talk has reached me. I didn't want to listen to it at first, but after this afternoon, well, I'm surprised I didn't find you with the girl splayed out on the table while you were having your way with her. Or are you just buggering her? Perhaps having her take you down her throat so as not to risk an unwanted brat? "

There was another low response.

Belle fled.

_So Madame Goldark suspected there was something between them. _

Belle was trembling. She took some deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. She managed to ready herself for bed early, intending to do some reading. She sat on her bed in the dim light, but realized that she wasn't attending to her reading. She realized that she was listening. She was listening for his footsteps, his footsteps coming back in his bedroom, his footsteps coming back into his bedroom indicating that he had not spent the night with his wife.

There were no footsteps.

Ashley had come in, exhausted as she now often was from the stress of her pregnancy and dealing with Madame Goldark. She was chatting, how Madame had wanted her to take special care with her hair, with her clothing, with her undergarments. She clearly was about to try to gain the attention of her husband. The room had been cleaned and set up for an intimate meal, including wine.

Belle heard all of this and said nothing. She was trying to hold herself together. _This woman was his wife. She had every right to the man's attentions._ Belle had no rights where he was concerned. Ashley had fallen into her bed and soon drifted off. Not wanting to wake her, Belle got herself up. She stopped by _his _room downstairs and seeing the door opened, she peeked in. The room was empty.

The door to the Red Bedroom was closed.

She could not hear any voices, any sounds from behind the door. Part of her wanted to listen, but part of her was afraid of what she might hear.

She fled.

She went on downstairs. She stopped a moment in the library, but the room was permeated by his presence, his smell, so many reminders of him, including the cup she had chipped that he had kept for reasons she did not begin to understand.

It would never do for her to remain here.

She went on down to the basement, to the dungeon room he had first shut her in when he had brought her into the house. _It reminded her of what a harsh, unyielding, inconsiderate man he could be. . . but then she thought about what a clever, kind and generous man he could be. _She had since placed blankets into the room, had placed a tinder box on the table, had installed a small coal brazier and had finally kept it stocked with dried fruit and other things to eat, if not for herself, for the next girl he decided to lock in there.

She lay down on the bed and covered herself with the blankets on the bed. She curled up into a ball and allowed herself to begin to cry, hot tears running down her face, soaking the pillow. She cried and cried and cried. There was no hope.

**The song is (of course) To Know, Know, Know him by Phil Spector and covered by just about everybody (except Elvis). **

**Thank you so much all you wonderful, encouraging reviewers: RoxyMoron, Grace5231973, Jade Eclipse, NamelessWildflower, cheesyteal'c, jewel415, morgananne16, Erik'sTrueAngel, juju0268, gravity01, Wondermorena, emospritelet, Spinning Folly, Shadow's Echo, Anne Andrews (Guest), Aletta-Feather, and mockorangeflower**

_Next: The morning after_

_More from the attic_


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